A Hot Dad Recovers

I haven’t been blogging much these past few months, mainly because I was in a car accident (whiplash, concussion, and car was totaled). I simply haven’t had the time or energy. Plus I feel like crap (light-headed, tired, achy) if I don’t hold my neck and head in the absolute perfect position. Staring at a computer is hard work. No joke! (Though you can feel free to make jokes. I have thick skin. Just not thick enough to hold my friggin head, neck, and shoulders in a position that doesn’t hurt. But I’m working on it.)

So what have I been doing? Here’s my

Top 5 ways I’ve spent my time while recovering:

5) Sleeping!!! – sleep truly is the great elixir. If I work up enough energy to ride my beach cruiser, I sleep like a baby that night.

4) Physical therapy – my therapist is helping me re-learn how to move correctly. First I had to get my flexibility back. Now I’m working on strength. No, not Popeye arm strength or WWE steroid strength. Simply enough back strength to help me keep a posture that doesn’t hurt my f**ing neck!

3) Eating – I’ve always cooked and eaten well to fuel my sports, and now I’m cooking and eating well to fuel my recovery. Of course, I don’t eat as much as I used to, since I’m not burning three-zillion calories a day. But I have a hungry and growing teen son who is starting to lap me at the dinner table, so everything is getting eaten.

2) Working – my ass off, whenever I'm not sleeping. I actually started an iPhone app development company last fall, and over the winter built an iPhone alarm clock app that totally rocks (IMHO). Now I'm plugging it to the press (and plugging it here!) I’ll blog about it in detail later, after its gotten some reviews. (If you're curious, here's the iTunes app store link to the alarm clock app. The screens are gorgeous, so take a peek. I won't go into features, lest my shameless self-promotion incite a Hot Dads riot. But rest assured, the features rock, too! Haha.)

1) More sleep! See points 2, 3, and 4 above. I need my rest.

Looking over this list, I realize it reads sort of like a vacation planner to-do list. So here’s my

Top 5 Ways for a Hot Dad to Spend Vacation:

5) Sleep! Preferably on the beach or in a hammock

4) Physical therapy – of the bedroom variety with a hot girlfriend (I’m divorced) or hot wife (for the married guys). Of course, tennis, golf, cycling, swimming, diving are all physical therapies too. So is couch sex.

3) Eating - all you can eat buffets cooked by an executive chef in a resort or cruise ship are perfect on vacation. So is fine dining in a high-end restaurant, or slumming it on the street from an ethnic food truck. As long as someone else cooks, it’s all good.

2) Working – on your tennis swing, golf swing, fishing cast, sailboat mastery, etc. You get the point.

1) More sleep!

Now then, if only I was recovering from my car accident in Spain or Greece or Hawaii, with a gorgeous woman taking care of me, I’d be set…

How Do You Handle Pre-Teen Angst?

My daughter is eleven years old but wants to be sixteen.

She doesn't want to join in on any type of family fun (whether it's with me or if it's with her mom) because it's just "not cool" to do and it might hurt her "school rep".

Honestly...I don't remember having a "rep" going into the sixth grade other than being the class clown. Have times changed THAT much?? (they haven't for me, but that's another story)

She wants to dress older (tight jeans and a scarf around the neck when it's 90 degrees outside?). She wants to be treated like an adult. She wants to get her own way because that's what grown ups do.

So how do I cope with this? How does a single dad influence his daughter without it going in one ear and out the other?

Tell me...honestly...how bad does it get when she eventually goes to high school???

iPhone Expert - Dad or Teens?

When I got my new iPhone 4, I had immediate command of the basics. I could make phone calls, trade text messages (including dirty text message jokes), take photos, set my background screen, set an alarm, change my ringtone, check the weather, enlarge the font (age is killing my eyes, what can I say?)... even read Dad’s House single parent blog.

Forget that this was my first smart phone with a touch screen. I was iPhone tech-savvy from the get-go.

Or so I thought.

iPhone Pick Up With Esprit de l’escalier

When my teen son came over to my house, he had a field day with my new iPhone 4. He downloaded games, downloaded apps, rearranged icons, set up a passcode, synced it with my laptop, and loaded my iPhone up with songs – 344, to be exact!

Ok, so my teen son is the iPhone expert. What can I say? He has an iPod touch, and all his friends have mobile gaming devices. They’ve been swapping tips and tricks for Apple products during school lunches for years.

When my teen daughter came over to my house, she went even deeper into the device. She had just returned from Europe where she visited a friend, and she wanted her friend to know she’d gotten back to California safely.

Single Parent Month Without the Kids

“Are you calling her?” I asked.
“No, she’s still sleeping,” my daughter said. “They’re nine hours ahead.”
“Sending her a text?”
“No, I’m writing to her on Facebook.”

Okay, call me a dinosaur. I barely log into Facebook from my laptop. But from my iPhone? My teen daughter is a mega-expert in my eyes.

My Teen Daughter's First Screaming Orgasm (Humor)

The three of us were driving to dinner, for our first meal together since both of them got back from vacation. My son took my iPhone and downloaded yet another game. It was some maze thing where he had to move the iPhone side to side to work some ball from level to level. The damn thing was beeping like CRAZY!!!!

“See that switch on the side?” I asked. “Flip it down.”

Both kids went into meltdown overdrive. “No, that locks the screen!” “No, that will cut the game short.” “No, you don’t know anything about this phone.”

“It’s a mute switch,” I said. “Flip it.”

My son hesitated – after all, I’m an iPhone neophyte. He and his sister are the experts. What the hell did I know? I hadn’t even downloaded apps or loaded music or used Facebook on the iPhone by myself.

“Flip it,” I said.

He flipped it. The screen didn’t lock. The game didn’t quit. The annoying beeps STOPPED.

My Dad Invented Google (A Child Proud of his Parent)

“Wow,” my son said. “You know something about the iPhone that I didn’t know.”
“Of course I do,” I said. “I’m an iPhone expert.”
“No, you’re not. Tell me something else I don’t know.”
“I will when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now!”

All in good time, Son. All in good time.

Teaching My Teens How to Cycle

I recently taught my teens how to ride bikes. No, it wasn’t their first time on two wheels. What I meant to say was that I taught them how to cycle on road bikes like Tour de France cyclists use. We climbed some hills. We screamed down a mountain. My kids’ reaction?

They loved it.

We rented high-end road bikes from the Stanford bike shop. I showed my daughter how much my credit card would be charged if, for some reason, her bike didn’t make it back to the shop: $2,200. Yeah, it was a nice bike. Ultra-light titanium frame, racing wheels, Shimano gears. My son’s bike was nearly as nice, and just as fast.

We piled the rental bikes along with my Bianchi into the back of my daughter’s truck, then drove to the town of Woodside. We did a few mile warm-up on our way to the Santa Cruz mountains, then climbed Old La Honda road up to Alice’s restaurant.

The Old La Honda climb is tough. It gets very steep in some places. I can do the climb in around 30 minutes. I’ve seen amateur racers do it in 19. I figure Lance Armstrong and crew can shoot up it in 15. My kids and I did it in 45 - it was tough! (Hats off to my children for making it. Can we get one of the Tour podium girls to award a jersey, or something?)

Partway up, both of my kids were complaining about the difficulty of the climb. My reaction? I laughed my ass off. (They’ve given me so much grief over the years for not having perfectly flat abs, this was my payback.)

I also gave them climbing tips: sit back on the seat, lift with the knees (they had pedal clips), pull back on the handlebars to provide tension, keep the gear low and the cadence high.

Lunch at Alice’s was great – 1/3 pound burgers and chili fries, all around. (And no embarrassing hottie cyclist pickup attempt.)

We continued our ride to Kings Mountain Road. The climb from Alice's wasn’t as steep as Old La Honda, but it went on forever. All three of us were tired, especially with lunch in our bellies. But once we got there, we were in heaven – we descended for probably 15 minutes, passing through a canopy of Redwoods and Pines all the way down into Woodside.

Of course, I schooled my kids on the safe way to descend: weight on your pedals, not your seat or arms. If your turning left, put the right pedal down, and lean into the turn. Hold your hands in the horns of the handlebars so they can’t slip off.

After ice cream bars at Roberts Market, we pedaled a final quarter mile back to the truck. All in all, it was a twenty mile loop.

And already my kids are asking – when can we do it again?

How to Host a World Cup Party for Teens

My kids and I have been recording World Cup Soccer matches on our DVR, and watching them at our leisure. It’s just not part of our constitution to get up at 4am for the first game of the day. And when there are three soccer games, one right after another, we want to name the time our butts sit down on that couch.

But this week, teams have one last chance to fight their way out of the group stage. It’s advance, or go home! So when the USA played Algeria at 7am California time, we figured we’d get up and watch it live.

More than that – my daughter decided to turn it into an event by inviting her friends. No worries, at all. We have a great dad daughter relationship. And as a Hot Soccer Dad, I feel duty bound to tell you all I learned from the experience. And so I bring you: How to host a world cup party for teens.

1) No need to send eVites or fancy invitations. Just have your teen start texting friends. She’ll talk soccer, create momentum and build a quorum in no time flat. And if any of her friends don’t like soccer, and say they’d rather sleep in than join the fun, you simply tell them: “This is a world-wide spectacle. Are you going to let life pass you by, or embrace it?” Sometimes peer pressure is a wonderful thing.

2) No need to cook Quaker oatmeal or put out bran muffins. Teens will want waffles – with whipped cream and berries and syrup. Even teens with ripped abs will want the fattening stuff. And they will want LOTS of waffles HOT waffles. None of those toaster things. Time to bust out the waffle iron. Fortunately, it’s easy enough to set it up on a card table in the TV room. Want a waffle? Cook it yourself! (A tequila sunrise for you isn't a bad plan.)

3) You can certainly watch the games with the teens, but don’t try telling any jokes – the teens won’t laugh. They’ll just wonder what planet you came from. (You'd think I would have learned this lesson before, when I told a joke to teens that I thought was funny as hell.)

4) Teens will undoubtedly stick around for a second soccer game, even if there’s a multi-hour delay between matches. In our case, they wanted to see Germany play. And that meant I needed to provide them lunch. Which brings me to my next point…

5) Buy twice as much pizza as you think you need. Doesn't matter how many waffles they ate. These are hungry teens!

6) Finally, if there happens to be a world record long tennis match being played at Wimbledon at the same time, expect those teens to watch every serve and volley. Thankfully, this does NOT mean the teens will stick around for dinner. England is eight hours ahead of California, and when the tennis match is called for darkness, you can send those teens packing for home

Until the next morning, when the next set of World Cup soccer matches starts up….

Cooking With Kids – Who’s Schooling Whom?

I convinced my teen son to help me cook dinner the other night. (A little TV bribery was all it took.) Aside from the time they kabitzed on our worlds best hamburger recipe, cooking with kids in my house usually means me telling them what to do. I don't mind. There's a reason why I cook.

But this time I wanted to raise the stakes, and not only tell my son what to do, but why. I wanted my son to start thinking like a chef, to be comfortable altering recipes, to see what it’s like to put a meal together from scratch.

Little did I know, he and his sister would be schooling me.

“What can I do?” he asked.
We were making asparagus pasta, risotto style.
“Chop an onion,” I said.
“Onions make me cry,” he said. “You do that. What’s the next step?”

Okay then.

I figured he’s chopped plenty of onions in his day. He’s doesn't quite have the onion chopping prowess of Julia Child in Julie and Julia, but he’s certainly capable. I didn’t mind him passing on the onion task.

“Melt 3 tablespoons of butter in the frying pan,” I said.

He cut off a chunk from a stick of butter and dropped it in the pan. I finished chopping the onion, then brought the chopped onion over to dump in the pan. The butter had barely started melting.

“Can you break up that big chunk of butter so it will melt faster?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m watching it dance around the pan.”

Anyone who remembers the movie American Beauty, and the video of the plastic bag blowing around, can certainly appreciate that my son was finding beauty and life in an inanimate object. But I had onions to sautee.

I dumped the onions in, even though his butter wasn’t melted. You can imagine how that went over.

I instructed my son on cooking the pasta, mixing in warm chicken broth, adding the asparagus, doing things at five minute intervals. He waved me off and took over. Fine. I went about making bruschetta: fresh tomatoes, garlic, salt, pepper, basil.

My daughter floated into the kitchen. “Don’t put in too much garlic,” she said.
“I won’t,” I said.
“But you always do.”
“I’m making this late. The flavors won’t have time to meld. It will be fine.”
She shook her head. “One clove, no more. And be sure to use fresh basil.” She’s half Italian, so she gets the real deal from her mom’s house.

“I don’t have fresh basil,” I said.
She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “Here, I’ll make it.”

Some cooking lesson I was giving.

With both of my kids preparing dishes, I figured I might as well shake myself a cocktail. My margarita recipe is to die for.

“Can I make your margarita?” my son asked.
“No, you’re too young,” I said.
“I already know how.”

Great. But I wouldn’t be swayed.

I started by rinsing the rim of the glass under running water, so I could dunk the rim in a container of margarita salt, and the salt would stick.

“That’s not how you do it,” my son said. “You’ll end up with salt inside the glass. You need to run a wet towel around the rim, instead.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I watched them make margaritas at the Mexican restauarant.”

We’d sat at the bar of the Mexican restaurant plenty of times, eating while watching soccer on TV, usually when the restaurant was fairly empty. (I once hit on a woman in front of my son at that Mexican restaurant bar. It wasn't easy.)

I followed my son’s instruction, and wouldn’t you know, the rim salted perfectly.

Okay, so maybe I had nothing to teach my kids in the kitchen this particular night. Next time I’ll make something more complicated, like chicken and dumplings, and really show them the ropes.

Then again, the asparagus pasta and bruschetta came out pretty good. Maybe I should let my kids cook every night. We might start eating better.

Captivated by Middle Aged Women

I’ve been getting whiplash lately, from turning my head too quickly when certain woman walk by. No, I’m not talking about hot French women, or the nubile creatures that make for an older men younger women relationship.

I’m talking about middle-aged women. And I’m captivated.

I know, I know, as a middle-aged single parent I should already be chasing women my age. And I do date women within ten years of me, plus or minus. (Ten isn’t so much when you’re an old man like me!) But truthfully, any gorgeous woman will turn a man’s head, no matter her age.

And for some reason, my head is turning in spades for middle-aged women.

It all started when I went to a seamstress’s house to pick up a dress she’d worked on for my teen daughter. The woman who answered the door was late-40s, dark hair with gray streaks, olive skin with wrinkles, and a smile that could warm anyone's heart.

She had a certain confidence about who she was. Like she’d lived a full life, and was totally comfortable in her skin.

The walls of her house were covered with photos of her kids, and it’s clear some of those kids had already graduated high school. Of course, I immediately looked for a ring on her finger, and photos of a man – any sign of a husband.

Alas (for me), she was married.

But I was struck by a spell. And I don’t just mean from this one woman. I mean every woman in her 40s (give or take)

I now check out middle-aged women when I hit the grocery store, in a coffee house, when I’m out running. I’m looking for that sexy confidence, that wisdom, that I’m vibrant and alive and I don’t care what you think about me sort of attitude.

I can’t wait for the next high school sporting event, and not just to cheer on my daughter. I’ll be checking the stands over and over again for the ring-less middle-aged woman who makes me melt.

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Frazzled Single Dad

As a single parent blogger, I try my best to tell entertaining stories about my single dad dating life and also about raising teens. But lately I’ve been feeling like a frazzled single parent, and it's been a challenge to stay focused on positive blog posts (I don't like venting online. But I might vent a little right now. Doh!)

I’d like nothing more than to have a partner* pick up the slack for me right now. (* preferably a latina who enjoys spooning, but I wouldn’t say no to a hot French woman who likes a stiff mai tai. Doh!)

I actually thought I was staying on top of things. But when I drove my son to lacrosse practice, I realized I was losing a grip on my week.

My son played a lacrosse game this past Saturday, and his team only scored one goal.
“Are you guys working on drills where you cut into the crease to quick-stick some shots?” I asked. “Your team really needs to start scoring.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “We scored six goals in Sunday’s game.”

They had a game on Sunday? Doh! Frazzled single dad points scored!

“By the way, some lady called you for an interview,” my son said.
“She did?” I asked.
“Yeah. It was supposed to happen on Monday.”

Doh! Frazzled single dad points scored again.

After dropping him at lacrosse practice, I had an hour to fix dinner before I needed to pick him up again. But I came home to a house with both toilets backed up. Seriously backed up. Like, I needed to call a plumber to snake the line.

Frazzled single dad, redux!

But wait, there was a bigger problem. My daughter had a soccer playoff game after dinner that I wanted to see. I was supposed to pick my son up from lacrosse practice, get him home to eat, start him on his homework (he was skipping her game), go see my daughter’s game, and get back home before anyone’s bedtime.

Frazzled! Frazzled! Frazzled! Can’t someone else pick him up and take care of him?

At that point, I actually thought it was a sign from the universe. You see, I have a hard deadline Friday that I’m working overtime to meet. If I skipped my daughter’s playoff game, I could work toward the deadline while the plumber fixed the toilets, and my son got his homework done. My frazzled state would be pacified, in spades. (Of course there are more fun ways to get unfrazzled. Drinking and sex, anyone? Doh!)

But soccer playoff games like this come once in a high school lifetime. No way would I miss my daughter and her teammates in a match like that.

And so this single dad gave a middle finger to his frazzled life – I went to the game, I sent my kids to their mom’s house to sleep, and I told the plumber to come at 11pm.

I’m home alone now, shaking up my favorite margarita recipe, writing this post, feeling quite unfrazzled.

But man, I have to pee. Where’s that damn plumber, already?!

btw – my daughter's team lost late in the game when the ref called a dubious foul in the box. It looked like the girl took a dive, and it definitely wasn't in the box. The sideline ref said he didn't see a foul. But the center ref, who was 30 yards from the play, called it and awarded the other team a penalty kick - i.e. one on one vs. the goalie, and almost impossible to stop. In short, the center ref gifted the game to the other team. Season over. Frazzled times!

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Whattya Mean You Don’t Know Your Age?

My son turned three back in September. Let me just stress right now that he is the apple of my eye and I love him more than words could adequately explain. He has truly changed my life and even though his mom and I are no longer together, I want to continue to be a positive influence in his life as well as a constant…always being around for him.

I say that because I'm about to complain and get some frustrations out, and I really don't want anybody believing that I think any less of my son. He is my world.

Okay…the kid can't talk. He says words from time to time, but they're mumbled or muffled or don't make any sense at all. The Ex and I both believe that he needs tubes in his ears (he sees a specialist later this month) and that the talking will develop ten-fold once he can truly hear and understand exactly what he's saying. His hearing is fine, too…he's already passed hearing tests and seems to know what we tell him most of the time.

When sitting with a picture book, asking him to find objects like turtles and oranges and ducks are a joy because the kid seems to be able to pick out just about anything. It's quite impressive, actually.

But over the weekend we were playing Chutes & Ladders. Obviously, it's a bit of a stretch to get him to understand the concept at this point…but I thought it'd be fun to try. So I'm spinning the little dial and asking him to tell me what number it lands on (it was a 3). He doesn't know. No worries, I think. I tell him and get him to repeat it out loud and we continue to play.

He lands on the same number. He has no idea what it is.

Okay…how about if I count out loud? Maybe he just can't recognize the numbers on a page. Surely he can count to five, right?

"One…two…"

"Eight?"

Sigh.

"No, buddy…there's no eight. How old are you?"

Shrugs.

"Well, you knew your age on your birthday. How old are you, buddy?"

"Eight?"

"No, buddy. One…two…"

Silence.

I was a bit stunned. I really thought that between the babysitter he's with every day and his mom (who has custody) that surely NUMBERS would have entered into the equation at some point. I mean, it's awesome to know colors and I don't expect him to know the alphabet yet (especially where he can't even pronounce words correctly), but why can't he even count to three yet?

Am I expecting too much out of him? Am I expecting too much out of him mom? Should I take it upon myself to be his numeric teacher? I know I shouldn't be frustrated, but am I really out of line by feeling this way?

Out of Shape Dad Watching His Teens

I used to be ripped. I rowed crew in my 20s, and had twelve-pack abs. I ran seven marathons in my 30s, and had six-pack abs. I cycled centuries in my 40s, and still had ripped abs.

But now that both of my kids are playing multiple sports? I'm fat from watching them.

What's a hot dad to do!?

To wit: my daughter players club soccer and varsity soccer, and runs cross country and track. For a dad to watch his daughter compete, he's got to get to the sporting field two or three days a week.

Of course, it's worth it. Girls who play sports while their dads watch tend to have higher self-esteem than other girls. (I swear I read that somewhere, and I'm too fat and lazy to google it now.)

To wit: my son plays club lacrosse and soccer, runs cross country and track, and wrestles. Plus, he plays the trumpet. Add it all up, and I'm spending another two or three days each week watching him.

Of course, it's worth it. (I can't quote a stat on this one, and I'm too damn fat and lazy to figure one out. Someone shake me my best margarita recipe!)

With all that time spent watching sports, I'm not doing my usual workouts. I'm standing on the sidelines, drinking coffee, chatting with other parents, cursing the ref under my breath.

I've been relegated to getting my workouts in after the sun goes down. You try cycling after dark! Or running when you can't see the street. And no, the men's playground (Maennerspielplatz) isn't going to cut it as a workout choice.

I checked the Hot Dads exercise manual, and section 6, item 9 suggested the following to remedy this situation:

• Car sex
  
• Couch sex
  
• Wild sex outdoors
  
• Spooning naked
  

If you see me running shirtless this spring, you'll know the Hot Dads program worked.

And if it works, maybe we should sell some pay-per-view workout tapes.

Sexy Hookups Make Blogging More Fun!

I’ve been divorced ten years, and I’ve hooked up more than a few times. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s simply an artifact of being a middle-aged single parent in the suburbs. It’s hard finding a woman who wants to date, doesn’t mind that I have teens, has time to date, is attracted to me, and who is someone I’m attracted to on multiple levels (mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually, sexually.) Hooking up provides much-needed intimacy when I’m in a dry spell, dating-wise.

Plus, hookups make blogging a lot more fun.

Case in point: remember my coffee date who just wanted rebound sex? Blog fodder, in spades.

Or that sexy wine country date I had with a Brasilian woman? She wanted to have car sex right there in a traffic jam. Ay carumba!

I have plenty of sexy and funny dating stories. In the archives, at least.

The reason this has come up right now is that I’m trying to stop hooking up, and open the way for the right woman to come into my life, be it for a long term relationship or a short-term snuggle fest. I’ve actually been in this mode for a while now. I’ve had some relationships (both dating and friends-with-benefits), and I don’t blog details about people I am currently seeing. I feel to do so disrespects their privacy, and it can only come back to bite me in the butt if (or when) things go downhill and we split.

Plus, it’s damn hard for a blogger to get a date with a new woman if she knows about my blog and she reads that I hooked up with someone else the night before!

And so, my blogging has been relegated to funny stories about recycling bottles and cans, and my teen son wanting ripped abs and massive pecs. (Of course, even dates gone bad can turn into good blog material if they involve a tattooed hooker on craigslist personals. Doh!)

At some point, I’ll stop this dating nonsense, and get back to generating blog topics the old-fashioned way – by hooking up!

p.s. if my date this weekend reads this post, please know all this hookup talk is humor! Fiction! Funny stuff! I made it all up while helping an old lady across the street, on my way to volunteering at the local animal shelter where I’m busy researching a cure for colds in cats.

Where Are My Teen Kids?

As a single parent with half-time custody, I’m supposed to see my kids half of the time. My ex's and my custody schedule works great. The kids are with me Monday and Tuesday nights, with their mom Wednesday and Thursday, and they alternate weekends between mom’s house and dad’s house. I love seeing my kids. Parenting rocks.

So how come this past weekend when they were supposed to be with me, they weren’t with me?

Because they're teens.

To wit: Friday night, my daughter’s friend from Sweden was enjoying her last night visiting the states. My daughter and all her friends were out till the wee hours giving waffle daagen a new name. As for my son? He was at a middle school dance, getting his freak on to Keisha (Tik Tok). With both kids gone, you think I could have persuaded a girlfriend to come over for couch sex or a movie. But, alas, I watched a DVD alone.

Saturday during the day, my son had some lacrosse activities, then hung out skateboarding with friends. My daughter slept in. I mean, she really slept in – till early afternoon. What’s a single dad to do when his kids are sort of around, but not really? I did yard work, pruning, taking down xmas lights. Gotta love quality family time, eh?

But not to worry – I insisted my daughter stay home and eat dinner with us Saturday night. And she gladly agreed, except that right after dinner she was heading off to the movies to see It’s Complicated with a child-of-divorce girlfriend. (They’re both 17, and can get themselves into R-rated movies.) As for my son? I forgot to command him to stay home for dinner, and he had a sleepover with those skateboarding friends.

Sunday is fun day, right? Er… for the kids. My daughter didn’t sleep too late, but once up her friends came by and whisked her off to the mall to shop for Winter Ball dresses. As for my son? He got invited to a Chowder Fest. Forty gallons of homemade clam chowder for forty guests. He ate five bowls, and loved it!

By Sunday night, my kids were exhausted. And here I’d spent the weekend holding down the fort in hopes we’d do something as a family. I'm a firm believer that parents should be present to their kids lives. Of course, that only works if the kids are present, too. Sigh. At least by my being around and giving them a long leash, they got to spend quality time with friends. That's important, too. Cool parent points scored.

The Winter Ball dress? My daughter didn’t find one. And the Chowder Fest? My son got a stomach ache from eating way too much. (Haha.)

As for this hot dad who wondered where his kids went - I had an awesome nap!

Next custody weekend, I won’t be sitting around solo. I’ll simply make plans of my own.

Tough to admit

Sitting on a cold concrete floor with my arms crossed and my head buried in my chest, a man twice my size and with blood all over his shirt began to walk toward me.

He stopped a foot away from me to my right, unzipped his pants, and began to pee in a urinal. I could have reached over and touched the dirtiest toilet I had ever seen from the only available place to sit when I was led into the cell in the Los Angeles-area jail.

Never moving my head while he was there, I closed my eyes and began to wonder what brought me to what was no doubt the lowest point in my life. I am lucky enough to be a father of four beautiful girls, have the job that I wanted ever since I was in grade school, and I am generally pretty happy in life.

Yet, here I sit with nine other men, at 2 a.m. on Sunday morning, in a 10x10 cell, knowing that five hours later my girls would wake up and ask my roommates why their Dad was not home. That thought made me realize that there was really only one thing that could make me jeopardize everything that I had in my life.

It was alcohol. Like my mother had been all my childhood and my older brother who developed into one as a young adult, I knew then that I had become an alcoholic.

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Seven hours earlier, I fought through Los Angeles traffic en route to my 20th high school reunion. Truthfully, I didn't want to go and see my former teammates on what was one of the best football teams our school ever had.

However, I was repeatedly told that I had no choice.

"Brett, you have to go," Jenny said, who I had known since junior high and was the reunion organizer. "You are the football coach of the school we graduated from. How can you not go? Everyone will want to see you!"

That was exactly the reason why I didn't want go. While seeing old friends and sharing stories from the past was intriguing, having to answer questions on why our football team is now struggling was worth avoiding.

"Don't worry about all that..." Jenny continued. "You will have a blast and everyone won't care about what the team is doing now."

She was right. I did have a blast and everyone was more interested in seeing pictures of my girls than how the team was doing.

For five hours, I laughed, shared parenting stories, and reconnected with people I had grown up with and hadn't seen since graduation. And, I drank.

Every time another former teammate or friend walked up to me to talk, they brought with them a drink for me. I didn't buy a drink during the night. But, that didn't stop me from not knowing how many I drank.

Despite going with the intention of not drinking, I never turned down a drink and was enjoying downing beers with my former drinking buddies.

I was funny, loud, and felt pretty damn good about myself. The shy, insecure kid from high school was now the head football coach at the school we all went to and was also the fun guy to be around.

Shortly after 11 p.m., I began to say goodbyes and started to head to my car when I was stopped by one of my oldest friends.

"Hey, are you OK to drive?" he asked while puffing on a cigarette.

"Yea, I am good. But, let me bum a few cigarettes for the drive home. It will keep me busy and awake."

He handed me three cigarettes and I got in my car and jumped on the freeway. I drove for 30 minutes and thought I was driving just as I would if I was sober.

Driving in the fast lane, I finished the first cigarette and flicked it out the window to avoid the smell lingering in my car. Rolling my window back up, I checked the rear view mirror. My heart began to race as I saw the flashing lights of a California Highway Patrol car behind me.

I couldn't believe it. I had no idea how drunk I was, but was pretty sure I was over the legal limit of .08. Moving my car off the freeway and onto an off ramp, I told myself to calm down and act relaxed when the CHP approached my car.

Stopped on the side of the road, I waited as two officers approached both sides of my car.

"License and registration please," said the younger of the two CHPs.

"Here you go, Sir. Everything alright?"

"Well, everything was alright until you threw a cigarette out your window. Have you been drinking?"

I was speechless and didn't know what to say. Stupidly, I lied.

"No, Sir."

"Well, you were driving fine and we pulled you over because of the cigarette. But, I can smell alcohol on you. If you would have told me you had two beers, we would probably have let you go. You need to get out of your car for a sobriety test. Are you willing do that?"

"Yes, Sir. Whatever you want."

I got out and went through test after test. I touched my nose with my eyes closed, counted backwards, and walked foot over foot down an imaginary line. After I was done, the CHPs talked to one another quietly for a moment before asking me to blow into a breathalyzer.

I agreed and waited patiently after blowing the first time. The younger CHP then asked me to blow again. It was after the second time that I began to understand the situation I was in.

"How fucked am I?" I asked as he waited for the results. "Am I fucked? I am so fucked. Damn... I can't believe this. I am so fucked."

He then looked up from the breathalyzer and told me what I didn't want to hear.

"Sir, you blew .0823. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?"

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After two slip-ups on consecutive weekends after my arrest, I am proud to say that I have not had a drink in 115 days. It hasn't always been easy, but it also hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be either.

Instead of drinking after football games with other coaches, I drink iced tea or have a non-alcoholic drink. No one harasses me about not drinking, and I can't believe how much easier it is on Saturdays or Sundays at football meetings or practices without suffering from a hangover.

The definition of an alcoholic is different for every alcoholic. I believe I am an alcoholic because I couldn't stop once I got started. Enough said.

I am thankful that my night in jail didn't involve me hurting anyone with my car, didn't cause me to lose my family, my job, or end the relatively new relationship I am in with a wonderful woman. It could have been a lot worse for me and my family.

But, that still doesn't change that fact I am... "Brett, and I am an alcoholic."

The Zombie Plan: A Hot Dad's Guide

Do you have a plan for when the zombies attack?

Please, people...don’t tell me that Halloween is the only time of the year that you think about zombies and the undead. C’mon now...surely you must realize that zombies that bring havoc to the land of the living at any time of the year. What will you do when it happens? Where will you go if you’re being chased by flesh-eating beings? How will you survive the impending apocalypse?

Well...I’ve got a plan. It’s not perfect, it’s not absolute, but it’s a plan. In fact, my girlfriend was a bit taken aback at knowing that I actually had a plan in place. Well...she’s gonna be in a world of hurt if she doesn’t at least have an escape route in the back of her mind.

So because you never know if somebody who will eventually be a zombie on my trail will read this (and use it to catch me later....duh!!), I’m not going to provide my detailed plan here. No, instead I’m going to help all of you by providing some very important tips on how to stay alive during a zombie apocalypse:

• Find water. I don’t know about you, but I have yet to see a movie where zombies could do ANYTHING involving water. So find a boat...a life raft, even...and seriously consider going to the nearest island to wait out the storm (so to speak). Of course, if this island has only trees and bugs then you might be in a bit of a jam when it comes to staying alive, so you might need more than just a boat in order to stay alive. Of course, if you don’t live anywhere close to water then you’re probably screwed if this plan is followed.
• Find weapons. Lots of ‘em. Guns...explosives...machetes...anything that can blow something up or cut something off. You’ll need it. Just remember there are only two places you can focus your attack on: the head and the knees. Everybody knows that zombies eat brains. The flip side of that is the fact that zombies will actually “die” if you destroy their brain. So always try to aim for the head each and every time. Of course, if the head isn’t an option then go for the knees. Why? You can out-run a zombie with only one leg. Trust me.
• Find a mall. Not only are there a LOT of resources there that are available for you in order to survive (food...water...those shoes you saw on Sex & the City), but there are normally a LOT of places to hide from the undead hordes that might be coming after you. Obviously, there may be some drawbacks like the distinct possibility that more and more zombies might surround the mall because it’s where they used to congregate when they were alive...but for the most part you’re probably in a pretty safe spot. BONUS: Pick a mall with a Wal-Mart or some outdoor specialty store for easier access to zombie-destroying weapons.
• Find old people. This may sound crass and horrific, but let’s face it: you don’t want to die, AMIRITE?? Do you really think a zombie cares if they’re chewing on flesh from somebody who’s 20 or 80? Nah. If you’re being chased by some flesh-eaters, your best bet is planning an escape route that runs past a senior citizen’s home. You may frown now, but you’ll thank me later.
• Find a remote area. Listen...most of the zombie hordes will spend weeks (possibly months) eating on the yummy flesh within the urban areas and cities. So if you live on a farm or in a suburban area, you’re probably in better shape than you think. Is it free of zombies? Well of course not...but it’s still better than being in a city where the undead will breed faster than Octomom in a sperm-donor clinic.
• Find a way to stay alive for 5 years. The suggestion is that bacteria will have eaten away at the zombies to the point that they cannot actually “survive” after 4-6 years. So if there has been a “zombie war” and you have found a way to self-sustain, then you’ve got a great chance at long-term survival.

Hey...I’m no expert. I’m sure there are ‘official’ websites and books out there that can tell you, in detail, what you need to know in order to completely survive the zombie apocalypse.

But don’t let the Halloween talk make you think this is the only time of the year that you need to think of a plan. Any good dad has a good zombie plan.

It’s just a given, isn’t it?

I’ve Got a Plan

I love my dad, I really do. When I was growing up, he was a workaholic. Hell...he’s STILL a workaholic and he’s in his early 60’s so I guess some things don’t change. He’s never been the most open with his feelings, which is probably why I’m a bit closer to my mom.

My dad enjoyed an emotional distance. I don’t blame him...I think that’s just how a lot of us were raised back in the 70’s (or maybe I’m just providing an excuse for him). My dad never really threw the ball around much with me. Hell...he doesn’t like sports so I didn’t grow up watching anything with him (unless I wanted to waste time watching curling). My dad can build pretty much anything he wants, yet he never taught me how to hammer a nail. My dad loves to go camping, yet other than my grandfather taking me as a young boy, I never learned how to put a worm on a hook or make s’mores by a campfire.

My son recently turned three. This boy is the light of my life. At this point, where I’ve been separated for 2 ½ years and my girlfriend lives 3 hours away, I’ve already made conscious efforts to not only spend time with him as he grows up but to spend quality time with him.

Now maybe my version of quality doesn’t necessarily jive with everybody else’s...but I don’t care. I want to spend Sundays with him watching football from 12pm to 12am (okay...maybe he’ll be in bed before that but I’ll totally let him stay up late as he gets older). I want to throw a baseball with him (or football) and help him learn how to catch. I want to do a “fist pump” with him so we have our own secret handshake.

Bottom line? I want to be the dad that my son WANTS to come and visit. I want him to grow up saying, “Man...I remember how much fun it was to watch football with pops; eating pizza and chicken wings and getting excited about every little play.” I want him to reminisce about spending a Saturday night with me watching Hockey Night in Canada (and I’m not even a big fan of hockey).

This isn’t about one-off’s, either. My dad took me to see the local hockey team maybe once or twice in my entire lifetime. He took me to see wrestling once when I turned 16. We did sporadic things together, and that’s fine (again...I love the guy and really don’t want to hold any resentment or sound like I do, either). But in my eyes, it’s extremely important to set-up trends and regular occurrences.

My boss at work has season tickets to the local hockey team. He’s got three kids. He can’t afford five season tickets (including his wife) so he rotates everybody on who gets to go, with the occasional family night with all five going together. His children know that no matter what else happens in their childhood, their father’s great joy was to watch hockey with them on a regular basis (or coach them in basketball, or watch them play soccer...).

It’s not even about sports, either. I can’t wait to help educate my son on music. ALL music. See, I’m a former DJ...both on college radio and in the clubs while in my 20’s. My parents raised me on country music before I gravitated to rock as a young child (thank goodness). I can still, to this day, fully appreciate all forms of music. A good song is a good song, whether it’s country or rock or dance or cheesy pop. I think too many kids close their ears to the world of music that’s out there around them. I’m really hoping that my son can at least appreciate other forms of music, regardless of what his favourite may or may not be.

This is my plan, anyway. It’s not perfect...it’s not really specific. It could totally backfire if my son would rather watch Broadway musicals than Monday Night Football. That’s alright, though...I’ll love him completely anyway and have to start seeing if Wal-Mart has a “Broadway musical dvd” section. As long as I make it a regular event that he’ll always remember, that’s all that really matters to me.

I think my dad might have taken our relationship for granted. I have no plans on doing the same thing with my son. I’ve got a plan.

****

Canadian Bald Guy is just a thirty-something single dad who is trying to find his place in the world…no more, no less. You can check out his regular ramblings at I Used To Have Hair.

My First Girlfriend Post-Divorce

Eight months after my wife and I separated, friends introduced me to a woman who became my first serious girlfriend, post divorce. I was 37 at the time, and she was 28. Hints of an older men younger women dating relationship, but that's not what I found attractive in her. I was drawn to her vibrant feminine energy and enthusiasm for life.

Divorce was the most painful experience I ever endured. Even though my wife and I parted amicably, and made it a priority to put the kids first and co-parent as best we can, it took years to process the emotional demolition of our marriage.

Problem was, when I met my first post-divorce girlfriend, I hadn't even started the divorce detox process.

I was like Jon Gosselin dating like crazy, except I was out on the town with different women 3 nights a week. I kept telling myself I was trying to find someone to bring around the kids, but in hindsight I now see that was me deluding myself. Dating after divorce, I was sowing my wild oats, plain and simple.

And then I met this woman who became my girlfriend. She helped me become aware of my spiritual self, how we're all connected in the universe. How we're all part of one song. I wanted to see the world through her eyes. But of course, I had to see them through my own.

Could I have dated someone older? I doubt it. At the time, I was not ready for a "real" relationship. Oh, I thought this girlfriend was the one - she eventually met my kids, helped me pick out a house, showed me how to get in touch with my feelings. I fully intended to marry her.

But we pushed each other's buttons like crazy.

Fast forward ten years. I'm still single, but I'm wiser for the wear. I've been in some great long-term relationships, enjoyed some short-term flings, dated some women seriously, had more than a few one-night-stands.

Would I change anything? I'd like to see my kids every day. But other than that, no I would not. I've grown in ways that would not have been possible had I stayed married.

In case you're curious, I'm still looking for a younger woman to enter my life. Not tons younger, and not for the stereotypical disfunctional divorced male reasons. It's just this: when I was married, I was younger than my wife.

Now I'm at a point in life where I need to be the older person in the relationship.

Why I Cook

I'm divorced, a single dad with half-time custody, and I've been running a household solo for nearly ten years. I figured learning how to cook was a necessity. I had a bit of a head-start, since my ex was Italian and from a family of great cooks. I learned the ins and outs of la cucina italiana directly from the source. (You don't throw spaghetti on the wall to see if it's done!) My Italian-style carrots that I learned from them are to die for. My ex-mother-in-law also taught me how to cook beets, plus a zillion different ways to serve pasta.

One single buddy of mine won't cook on a nightly basis. He'll heat up a can of chili, or microwave some Lean Cuisine, but most often he'll take his hard-earned cash and go spend it in a restaurant.

Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, if you have the money. But there's more to cooking for yourself than saving a buck.

First off, it can be healthier to cook for yourself. I get to pick the ingredients, so I know they are healthy and fresh. I can also cut back on butter and salt (important for an aging dad like me.) Plus, some dishes like my marinated grilled asparagus recipe are awesome, and not something I find in many restaurants.

Second, it doesn't have to take very long. I can cook most meals in 30 minutes flat. Heading out to a restaurant takes longer than that. (My grilled chicken marinade recipe needs to be prepped hours in advance; needless to say, I don't cook it every night!) And in those 30 minutes, I can enjoy the cocktail of my choice. Whether that's the best margarita recipe or mai tai recipe depends on my mood, and doesn't cost me ten bucks a pop!

Third, it's a grounding experience. (This part gets touchy-feely, I suppose. I'm in NorCal, baby!) I feel connected to the earth, and to the farmers and suppliers, and to my kids who I cook for. It feels good to create a meal for them. It's nurturing. I get this feeling whether I'm grilling salmon at the BBQ, or cooking chicken and dumplings at the stove.

When I asked my single buddy why he doesn't cook, he said - "I'll cook for company. But it's just not worth the effort to cook for myself."

To which I said - "you're saying you're not worth it?"

Cook. It's good for you.

And if I didn't give you enough recipe pointers here, go buy a cookbook!

Raising Girls is Easy

I grew up in a house full of boys, so when my daughter was born, I had no idea what it would be like raising a girl. Let me say for the record - it's been easy. Far easier than raising a son.

Boys are a terror. I know this from the grief my brothers and I gave to my dear mom. We broke things like crazy. Windows. Toys. Each other. (No broken bones, but plenty of stitches.) We ran around the house like wild animals, yelling and screaming. We wrestled until there were tears. We aimed slingshots and bee-bee guns at each other, sometimes even firing. (Like a Jon and Kate divorce proceeding. Ha!)

Where was brother protective services when we needed it?

While my son isn't quite that out of control, he is a handful. He amuses himself by building things that are way too dangerous for public use, then inviting his friends to use them. Like the time he hung a wooden platform from a tree branch, piled it with patio furniture, then had everyone get on - only to see it collapse. (No one was seriously injured in the writing of this blog post.)

He also loves starting fires, which I admit comes in handy when we're cooking homemade hamburgers, or fixing our Jamaican grilled chicken marinade recipe. But fire isn't such a great idea when he's supposed to be in his room doing homework, but is actually lighting matches and melting candle wax all over his desk. WTF!

Men and fire.

My daughter has been a piece of cake. She does her homework, keeps a tidy room, never talks back. Oh sure, she could help more often around the house. But she's so sweet, and so good at keeping her nose clean, I kind of don't care. She's seventeen, and far from a loose girl - she's more focused on getting into college than getting pregnant. So there are no early-grandpa fears for me! (Watch, she has a drawer full of sex toys I don't know about. Ha.)

It's not just home life, though. Sports teams have been way easier with her. Granted, girls can be catty at times, but they'd rather get along than not. Plus, the coaches early on were usually moms, as opposed to manic Little League dads. As a result, my daughter's teams had way better parental camaraderie (i.e. parties!) I love watching my daughter do her sports.

So, next time someone tells me what a headache their daughter has been, I will knock on wood and say a little thank you that my daughter has been so easy.

Unless, of course, my son already lit that particular piece of wood on fire. Or hung it from a tree.

Doh!

Hot Dad - Sexy or Old?

A funny thing about blogging is seeing what sort of comments end up in my spam queue. As a single dad on the dating scene, it's not surprising that I'd get my share of spam for things like:

• Dating sites
  
• Sex toys
  
• Russian brides
  
• Porn
  

After all, I've posted all sorts of sexy stories and dating tips on my blog. There are sweet pick up lines for any occasion, sexy text messages you can't ignore, tantric breathing exercises for couples, advice on dating a hot teacher, having sex outside with a wild animal watching, drinking with lonely housewives, skinny dipping at club med, and other sexy and funny dating stories.

Not your typical parenting stuff!

Sometimes the spam just has a cut-n-paste list of URLs. Those are easy enough to ignore. But then there are spam comments that sound almost genuine, like the spammer actually read my blog and liked it! For instance:

Cool post, thank you for the information - I don't usually like to post blog comments but enjoyed this post. Please post more usefull stuff like this, I added you to my Google reader!

Nothing like stroking my ego and adding me to your reader to make me want to let that spam comment through! (Except that the link goes to a porn site. Doh!)

Over time, I noticed more and more spam comments for Viagra and Cialis. WTF?! I'm not that old. For the record, I have no trouble in the erectile functioning department. (Except for the fact that I don't have a woman in my life. That's dysfunctional! And no, I don't need a sexy stripper like Marisa Tomei from The Wrestler. A girl next door will do just fine.)

I soothed my ego by telling myself those spam comments were meant for some of the much older male readers of my blog.

But the other day, a spam comment showed up that genuinely disturbed me.

It was all about colon cleansing products!

What, am I suddenly 90 years old?

Sigh. Maybe it was my Quaker oatmeal post that did my demographic in.

Can someone please spam me some Viagra?

When You Can't Coach

I sucked as a soccer coach. I volunteered to be in charge of a team of eight boys playing six-on-six soccer (they were 5 year-olds). Even with my soccer-playing older daughter giving me tips, I managed to lead the team through a season where we lost every game. (Hey, no one keeps score at that age, right? Um... ok.)

Thankfully, the next time I coached, I was paired with a dad who was such a good athlete, his jersey was retired in high school. (I think my school retired a TI-55 calculator in honor of me.) We led our team of boys to an undefeated season and league championship. (Damn straight, we kept score!)

Okay, so I rode that dad's coattails to coaching glory. I've since retired from the youth sports coaching ranks. I went out a winner! (My son thinks that's funny. He takes it all with a grain of salt, and ribs me about our losing season.)

I believe it's important for every parent to show their kids they have a passion and talent for something. Whether that's soccer, camping, fishing (I love TentCamper's big catch), cycling (here I am with Lance Armstrong at the Tour of California), cooking (I hold the patent on the worlds best hamburger recipe), stamp collecting, robotics (the science fairs at our local school are quite competitive), knitting, rescuing animals, whatever - I think kids benefit when they see their parents engaged with life, even more so when the parent can share those experiences with their kids. (As a coach, mentor, etc.) Kids like to know their parents are good at something.

For me and my son, that connection has come through music. My dad played trumpet, I played trumpet, my son plays trumpet. For years, I gave him trumpet playing tips to help him excel and stand out. Things were going great. So much so, the school band director said my son had chops and was ready for a real private teacher.

At first, I hated the idea of being replaced as his trumpet teacher. Granted, I was a too lax with him. I taught him all the cool stuff (how to hit high notes, and how to twirl his trumpet like he was in the Earth Wind and Fire horn section), and none of the boring technical stuff. I knew he'd benefit from someone teaching him a more disciplined approach. I hired a teacher.

My son really enjoys his trumpet lessons. He's improving as a musician every single week. And the cool thing for me, I haven't been left out.

At the end of each lesson, his trumpet teacher and I start talking shop. We trade knowledge about mutes and mouthpieces, share stories about gigging, reminisce about songs we've both played, swap anecdotes about cool cats we've hung with (yeah, he talks like that), name-drop like crazy about famous musicians we've met, tell funny stories about playing in a band that only other musicians would relate to. The trumpet teacher and I are part of an ad-hoc fraternity that anyone who has ever played an instrument beyond high school can relate to.

My son sits and listens to these war stories with a smile on his face. Maybe he's looking forward to his own future experiences.

Or maybe he thinks his dad is pretty cool.

David Mott authors the blog Dad's House - Dating and Parenting by a Single Dad.