The World Cup just wrapped up here in North America, and my, was it a treat! I am not ignorant to the fact that European football, footie, soccer, or whatever name you'd like to ascribe to it, typically takes a back seat to every other "American" sport under the sun, but it is gaining traction here. Also, with us hosting the Cup this go-around, it seems as if more Americans are beginning to open their eyes to the beauty of the game.

One resounding theme that's been presented to us Americans through social media is how all of our European visitors are genuinely shocked by how nice we are and how nice our country is. This got me thinking a bit about the duality of the average American.

The rest of the world maintains a stereotypical worldview of how Americans are. I think some descriptive words would be "loud," "cowboys," "arrogant," and "free." You get the gist. None of these adjectives are wrong, but as is the case with all things in life, people don't necessarily fit the box you put them in.

Ope!

"Let me sneak right by ya and grab some ranch." This oft-repeated phrase can be heard echoing throughout the aisles of any midwestern grocery store...anywhere. It's a simple, unassuming phrase but elegantly epitomizes the American experience to a T. I'm a midwesterner, and I can't argue the fact that I know deep in my soul I have uttered those exact words, in sequence, a time or two. It's baked into who we are from birth. Midwesterners just can't help being unassumingly polite.

You may be thinking that this is stupid, and it is, but let's break the entire thing down to encapsulate the recent revelations of our foreign cousins. "Ope!" Never has a single word conveyed apology, surprise, and genuine care for your neighbor in a single sound. I was genuinely curious if this word had a specific definition or was a recognized dictionary word. The answer is, kind of? Ope doesn't have a distinctive place in Merriam-Webster yet, but it does have what I would deem an accurate definition on Wikipedia:

Ope is an interjection in American English, often associated with the Midwestern United States, used to express mild surprise, acknowledge a minor social infraction, or politely signal one's presence. It frequently appears in phrases such as "Ope, let me squeeze past ya" or "Ope, sorry about that."[1] Though popularly considered a distinctly Midwestern expression, linguists have noted that the underlying sound occurs across the English-speaking world, including in Canada and the United Kingdom.

As I stated before, Ope encapsulates that midwestern hospitality and outward kindness, and I do believe that to be the case for most of us here in the midwest. When I was traveling regularly, people on the west and east coasts were always surprised by "how nice we were".

We don't think of ourselves as nice per se; we're just conforming to what most of us were brought up with in the social conventions of our region. I and most of the people I know were brought up to show people kindness, lend a helping hand, and be polite. You know, the basic tenets of living in a civil society. Apparently this is aberrant behavior throughout the rest of the world (I would argue it's not), because if any of these social media videos are genuine, visitors were legitimately shocked by how nice and welcoming people are here. Many folks seemed to have a preconceived ideal that we were all violent, rude, assholes that would shoot you in the face should you disturb us. I suppose that holds some merit in Washington D.C., but not in the Midwest, baby! We'll be polite to you even if we hate you. Ope!

But we aren't just serving up smiles and polite apologies to our foreign guests; we're also serving up massive plates of calories. Which brings me to:

Food Wars!

Another theme that arose while researching this musing was the awe and wonder espoused by so many foreigners regarding food in the United States. If you're curious what I'm talking about, just Youtube "foreigners trying biscuits and gravy for the first time", its revelatory. How quickly people forget that we have two forces acting to the benefit (hyperbole) of all people here in the United States: Capitalism and obesity. Yes, Americans are fat for a reason; our food is absolutely delicious. It's so good that RFK looked at the food pyramid and said, "Nah, son! Let's flip that shit and give the people meat and dairy because that's what's delicious!" (WARNING: I do not in any way condone what our HHS secretary has done or will do in the future. I just have to tread lightly so the brain worms don't come for me too.)

So, everyone knows that there are only a few components that make food tasty in the United States: fat and sugar. Woo, do we like putting those two things in almost everything we make and consume. I'm not just talking about granulated sugar either; I'm talking about high-quality, ultra-processed corn syrup. Ugh, we love corn syrup here, as is evidenced by the massive swaths of land being consumed by our never-ending hunger for all things corn. We love corn and fat so much that people make butter sculptures of corn. It's true; look it up.

I would also say salt, but I feel like that's a given almost everywhere (it's not). So to recap, we consume mass amounts of fat and sugar to make us fat and diabetic so we can feed the capitalist medical system by buying weight loss drugs to undo the damage we just did to ourselves by consuming all of that delicious food.

So, yes, American food is surprisingly delicious, BUT it comes with a price—both to your waistline and your wallet. Speaking of wallets...

Capitalism Run Amok

Not all reactions to America were so rosy. There are many videos of visitors being in abject shock when presented with parking costs upwards of $100 when trying to park a car at a World Cup event. Nothing encapsulates our version of capitalism so well. People really need something, so we're going to mark it waaaay up...because we can and we like money. It really is insane that there are zero guard rails to this.

This really is indicative of two new trends in the American economy: surge pricing and surveillance pricing.

So, do you recall that all of these big tech companies have been accumulating data on you for multiple years? Well, those giant assholes are selling your data to retailers so they can implement surveillance pricing. What is this you may ask?! Google describes this model as:

How Surveillance Pricing Works

• Data Gathering: Companies collect granular real-time information via cookies, app tracking, purchase history, and data brokers.
• Algorithmic Profiling: Artificial intelligence estimates the maximum price a specific individual will tolerate before abandoning a purchase.
• Personalized Variation: Two different shoppers buying identical items simultaneously are charged different amounts, distinct from broad market-based dynamic pricing.

Wow, amazing! We're number 1, we're number 1! We're number 1 at destroying people's health, souls, and wallets. What type of giant asshole thought this up and subsequently implemented it!? Come on! This really is the epitome of capitalism run amok. Also, does anyone really believe the government is going to shut this down under our current administration? Ok, maybe about 27% of the population does...I'll just leave that alone.

So, come to America! You will find kind people, delicious food, and insane prices (all true). It's not perfect, but it's who we are. Trust me, I know what we got here and maybe that's why everything runs at a premium but don't be surprised the next time you talk to one of us and we aren't a giant jerkface. We really aren't all awful, just some of us...

Credit: Yahoo Sports



Dad out.

Over the past week, I managed to squeeze in a couple of mini-vacations, and it was a blast on all accounts. But after surviving what should be a relaxing "adult" trip hunting bourbon, followed by a marathon day at Cedar Point, I have come to a very distinct conclusion: I'm getting old.

I’ve previously mused that I am living in the body of a 70-year-old woman when I am, indeed, a 44-year-old man. Not only that, but I think both of my recent experiences highlight why it's time to turn the music down and pull up a rocking chair. I'm approaching the crossroads of looking at retirement communities. No joke, I get mailers addressed to me, vying for my future residency at one of their serene settings for the elderly.

My best friend and I recently went to bourbon country for the simple pleasure of sipping bourbon, finding hard-to-find bottles, and spending some much-needed guy time together. Overall, it was a good trip, but wow, did I find myself exhausted by the entire experience. Let's be real, I'm 44. It's not like I'm an ancient man; I'm just firmly set in middle-aged status (at least by years, if not by mileage). Why would a trip to bourbon country be exhausting, you ask? Let me tell you.

We started our trip in Louisville, staying right off Whiskey Row. The area is steeped in bourbon history and has recently been revitalized with a multitude of distillers reestablishing themselves. I booked a "boutique" hotel suite that looked great online. The suite itself was fine, but the majority of the building was undergoing heavy renovation. The elevator was out; there was no lobby except for a shell being constructed to a symphony of hammers and drills, and there was no air conditioning except for a single unit in our room.

I've prided myself on being able to "do hard things" throughout my adult life, and I acknowledge that this is a quintessential first-world problem. But I'll be damned if pulling my suitcase up to the 5th floor didn't wipe me out. I know, pathetic. But this was the first sign that my prematurely aged skeleton is feeling the miles. I felt every single step up to that room, and my overheated nervous system loved communicating that fact with the rest of my body.

The next leg of this trip was supposed to be a few nights spent in Frankfort. You may have noticed the operative word here: "supposed."

I had booked a VRBO for two nights. The house looked absolutely lovely online, and in person, it wasn't too bad. I think it would have been a great place to stay—had the AC been working. Mind you, this is the hottest part of the year, and it was blazing outside. When we entered the upstairs portion of this house, we noticed it right away.

"Huh," I said. "It sure is hot in here!"

It was a balmy 78 degrees. Indoors.

I've become a thermostat diva. I need ma AC! Weird things start to happen in my body when it's too hot. I immediately contacted the property manager, and they assured us that our comfort was paramount. It was not. We thought maybe they had just turned the unit on and it would cool down in time. It would not. We went out for a bit, hoping to return to a perfectly reasonable 72 degrees. We were sorely disappointed. When we returned around 9:00 PM, the temperature had actually climbed to a comfortable 82 degrees! Yes! That's precisely what a person living with MS needs! Hot, humid, stagnant interior temperatures.

My buddy is a contractor, and he identified the issues straight away. Extreme heat, mixed with a mad mechanical genius who blocked off the vents, equaled one of the worst nights of sleep we both had in years. So, we did what any self-respecting middle-aged men would do in our position: We threw in the towel and went home a day early. (And yes, we got a refund). At the very least we had a good haul of bourbon.

A few short days later, I took our oldest daughter to experience Cedar Point for the first time. If you've never been, it's an all-day endurance event of walking, riding, and baking in the sun. I haven't gotten to the point (literally and figuratively) in 10+ years, and I was living on the memories of a 30-something-year-old me. In those memories, roller coasters were spectacular and had zero physical impact on my well-being.

Apparently, things change.

We rode some big, violent coasters, and I felt every bit of that violence in my bones. Don't get me wrong, I still love riding, but geez. Out of the 29 rides that we took that day, I only started to black out once, suffered a toe injury that may or may not be broken, and experienced only mild nausea after every single drop. By the time the day was through, I was legitimately contemplating renting a mobility scooter to motor my happy ass back to the car. I was pooped.

But here is the contrast, and it’s a big one. When my buddy and I were mildly uncomfortable in a hot VRBO, we quit. But at Cedar Point? The absolute joy on my daughter's face overrode every single ache and pain in my body. No matter how tired I became, I kept going just to hear her yell "that was the best thing ever!!"

So, where does that leave me? Old, that's where. But am I going to slow down anytime soon? Nope. Because my wife and kids won't let me—and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Being uncomfortable is good for you. It forces you to adapt. More importantly, it proves that your tolerance for misery expands exponentially when it’s for the people you love. I doubt your kids will always remember that your joints ached or that you had a hard time keeping up; they’ll just remember that you showed up, rode the rides, and did it with a smile on your face. (I’d even hazard a guess that I got a smile or two out of my cynically stoic best friend in Kentucky, so I'll count that as a win, too).

Keep showing up. Keep embracing the exhaustion and doing the things that matter for your people. You'll be glad you did, even while you’re fielding mailers from prospective retirement communities. Age might be a mindset, but my aching skeleton is definitely a physical state of being.

Thanks for reading.

Dad out.

Hello! Recently, I was given the wonderful opportunity to embark on my annual guys' trip with my best friend. This year, we took what could arguably be considered the most middle-aged men's trip possible: a visit to bourbon country in Kentucky.

It was incredibly nice to get away. But as it turns out, the world doesn't stop when you're on vacation—only your attention does. And boy, did I miss some things. Let's recap a few of the major events that transpired while I was off the grid for a mere three days.

The High-T Department of War

Pete Hegseth just instituted a policy that every male in the military over the age of 30 needs to undergo mandatory testosterone testing. Yes, the head of the most powerful military in the world wants every dude to get checked for low-T the second they exit their twenties. This isn't satire. I genuinely wish it were.

Here's why this is a gigantic waste of time and resources: men should really only have their T checked if there's a medical reason to do so. The military already forces you to take a plethora of unnecessary tests. Information Assurance training comes to mind, not to mention the legendary Accident Avoidance Course. Woo! What would I do if I didn't take a mandatory class on not giving secrets to the enemy by leaving my computer unattended? Apparently, African princes got the best of a few Joes over the years. And how on Earth would I ever drive my car safely without that wonderful online module? I most assuredly would have driven into oncoming traffic in a fit of rage had I not been blessed by such a prolific course. Thanks, Army, for keeping me safe all these years!

But I digress. Like all things I do, I like to overanalyze, so let's look at the facts. Testosterone levels tend to fall naturally by about 1% each year after the age of 40. So, why are they starting the testing at 30? I'll tell you why: individuals who stay in the military past 40 years of age are functionally geriatric. Do you know how much relative aging occurs during 22 years of service? That 40-year-old has the health and joints of a 60-year-old, and it only gets worse from there. Military service exponentially degrades both your soul and your body. I don't think TRT will fix a broken soul, but hey, maybe?

Experts are mixed on the efficacy of testing an entire population that early, but one thing is for sure: those side effects are wild. They can include "increased risk of blood clots, acne, breast tenderness, and irritability." Yes, that's precisely what we need—an entire force of irritable troops with tender breasts. Awesome.

Plus, those who opt for testosterone replacement therapy get a double whammy of awesome by possibly becoming infertile! I've met so many soldiers in my lifetime who are quite literally dumber than rocks, so maybe Hegseth intends to kill two birds with one injection. A mad genius! A giant, heartfelt thank you to Big Daddy Hegseth. Your medical expertise is truly saving the profession. Hooah!

Blame Canada

The second piece of news I was greeted with is that Ohio's most illustrious used car salesman and statesman has submitted a piece of legislation that would sanction Canada because they had the audacity to catch on fire. How dare they!

I know the MAGA crowd is probably reading this and saying, "Hell yeah, get them Canadian bastards for throwing smoke our way!" You guys are totally right. We should find every excuse to blame an ally in crisis for inconveniencing us. My goodness, there's no way that climate change directly impacts the frequency of forest fires—everyone knows science nerds are stupid. It has to be Canada's unwillingness to prevent their own fires.

I know why they don't have any idea what they're doing: they don't have Smokey Bear to guilt them into it. Smokey would never visit the Godless Canadians to help them when they refuse to lift themselves up by their bootstraps. Perhaps we can help them form their own prevention campaign by giving them Moreno the Moose, an anthropomorphic depiction of our AMAZING senator from Ohio, who in no way spends his days dreaming about receiving hugs and praise from Trump because his daddy didn't love him. Moreno the Moose could star in a major ad campaign letting Canadians know that one of the most heavily wooded countries on Earth has no idea how to manage a forest.

Mind you, this is the same senator who hasn't intervened in any way on behalf of his own daughter, who was allegedly abused by another Republican congressman, Max Miller. He said it's a "private, family matter." Bitches be trippin', Bernie, and so is Canada with their totally inconsiderate fire. Keep shutting down our allies and proposing absolutely meaningless legislation on behalf of Ohioans everywhere. Maybe someday you'll get that hug.

War, Again

And the last minor piece of news I missed? The war with Iran is back on! Yes!

I have nothing else to say about this one except that we are clearly being led by the most competent people on the planet. I feel so safe knowing that our country is being governed so well by men of such great stature, who are in no way grifters or pedophiles. Thank Jesus for the Republican Party!

So, that was a lot to come home to. But at this point, you may be asking: did we at least have a great trip?

We had an incredible time, and I came home with some stellar bottles of bourbon. I'll talk about our adventure more in our next post, but for now, I'm going to leave you with the absolute guarantee that our elected representatives are super smart, looking out for our best interests, and doing everything they can to keep us safe. Especially ICE, who in NO WAY murders people for no good reason.

Dad out.

People are generally good and decent and want to help. That's one of the many things I love about America: regardless of your politics or background, most people are simply decent. This is great, but it often becomes a point of frustration for the chronically ill and disabled. People always want to fix you.

This isn't a new phenomenon for me, as I have had an incurable, degenerative disease for at least eight years now. The longer I deal with it, the easier it is for me to get frustrated with people constantly trying to help. As it is often said, it comes from a good place, and that is also good, but eventually, it just gets tiresome. It's easier when it's just yourself to fend for in these situations, but you add a child with a disability into the mix, and it gets downright infuriating sometimes—even though that feeling is unwarranted. Hey, we can't help what we feel, only how we react.

Lately, these feelings of resentment have only been compounded by our current political climate. There shouldn't be anything political about your personal health and that of your children, but here we are.

No One Knows What Causes MS

But everyone has an opinion on how to make you better. Since my official diagnosis, I have had almost every conversation in the book about MS. "What is that?" "What causes it?" "Is it contagious?" (one of my favorites), "Is it genetic?" "Is there a cure?"

So, I will answer those questions for you here and now.

What is it?

Multiple sclerosis is an autoimmune disease affecting an individual's central nervous system, specifically their brain and spine. Your immune system attacks the myelin sheath that protects all the abundant neural pathways in that system, and over time and wear, those signals begin to degrade.

The easiest way to think of it is to envision an insulated electric cable. The copper inside the cable is insulated to protect the copper itself and ensure the smooth flow of electricity. If that insulating sheath around it begins to fray and deteriorate, the wire will short out, and eventually, it will stop conducting electricity altogether.

This is what happens in MS; those neural pathways begin to short out, causing a veritable smorgasbord of problems. It is said that no one's MS is the same, but there are some patterns of disability throughout. These include severe pain, neuropathy, loss of motor function, memory problems, brain fog, temperature intolerance (hot and cold; we are thermostat princesses), bowel and bladder incontinence, and insomnia. And these are just some of the more common effects of the disease.

I have experienced all of these either constantly or inconsistently. No one "dies from MS," but we sure don't live well because of it. The life expectancy of a person with MS is approximately seven years shorter than the average.

There are many great medications that help stop the progression of MS, but none of them can reverse already-incurred disability. Not to mention that all these "disease-modifying therapies" can often have side effects worse than the disease itself, up to and including death. Sorry for bumming you out, but that's life!

What causes it?

Nobody knows, although plenty of people seem to think they do. There are no definitive markers or precursors that will predict how or who will get MS. Most experts believe it is a mixture of environmental and genetic factors but are still unable to pinpoint specifically what those are.

Some correlations include living in the northern hemisphere and being of European descent, even though this can't be observed universally, as all different types of ethnicities contract MS. MS occurs predominantly in women, and there is approximately a 2% risk if you have a parent with MS. That's pretty much it. There are countless theories and correlations, but no specific evidence pointing to one thing.

I think every person living with MS has their own theory on what caused theirs. My theory is that it's environmental. I don't have a single biological relative who has had MS. Ever. Which negates the genetic component. I think my disease was caused by the many toxic exposures I had while serving in the Army. I'm talking burn pits, chemical weapons, and radiation, oh my!

They'll tell you that all of these exposures are within occupational exposure guidelines and there's no way they could have an adverse impact on your health. Those people are either willfully ignorant or liars. There is no way they can measure a systemic impact that accounts for unique exposures over a lifetime. Most of the data is specific to one type of hazard, not the totality of many. I know for certain that your friend's cousin's aunt doesn't know how "her one friend" got MS.

Is it genetic?

Not really. As I said earlier, there is a 2% chance of having MS when you have a parent that also has it. Negligible.

Is it contagious?

Haha, no, Deborah. So you can stop talking to me from six feet away and wipe that scowl off your face. I won't give you the MS! It's mine!

Is there a cure?

This is the hardest one for me to answer. No, there is no cure, only treatment. In my case, the treatment itself hasn't increased my quality of life and is often detrimental to my well-being.

I get an infusion every six months that depletes all of my B-cells. You may recall that I said this was an autoimmune disease, so the logic here is that if you have no B-cells, your body won't attack itself anymore. This actually works... at least I can't prove that it doesn't, as I have had minimal disease progression for several years.

The debate for me is if it improves my overall quality of life, and the jury is still out on that one. I have two small kids in school who are constantly bringing all the nasty bugs home that their fellow nasty kids give them. I just had sinus surgery last year to try and cut down on the number of infections I get, which are numerous. The amount of weeks spent on antibiotics may just outweigh the amount of time off them. I've never done the math.

I say all this again to reinforce the point that there is no cure. The best you can hope for is a dam, and a failing one at that.

MAHAhahahahaha

I love the spirit of this movement. A return to healthy living, eating, and habits. This had so much promise until its actual execution and the complete departure from science and reality. I can't believe that I actually have to type this, but vaccines don't cause autism... the Army does.

Raw milk is not "good for you." Swimming in polluted water is not refreshing nor healthy, and creating distrust in our medical and research institutions is not smart. It is always OK to question the official narrative and be critical of "the data," but riding that pendulum all the way to the other side of insanity isn't really a good answer either.

Why am I talking about MAHA? It's because a lot of the people trying to fix me want to do it with voodoo, essential oils, and hopes and dreams. This is a perfect allegory for health and politics in America. No, I don't want to visit your hedge witch at her cottage by a festering swamp.

The Bottom Line

At this point, you may be rightfully asking yourself what the point is of this mildly aggressive explanation of a disease that affects approximately 1 million people in the United States.

Unless you have MS or are a doctor specializing in MS, stop trying to give me advice. I don't want it, I don't need it, and you don't have the answers.

I made the statement about people being genuinely good right off the bat to say that I know it's meant to be caring and helpful, but here is the crux: Just because you know someone with MS and they had a good experience with X, Y, or Z does not mean that everyone else does. I equate it to the "I can't be racist because I have a Black friend" argument. Just because you know someone, or someone adjacent, doesn't mean that you understand their lived experience.

Does anyone really think I haven't looked at every possible option to feel better or find that mythical cure? I have, and I will place money that the average person will not know more about my disease and how to treat it than I do. Just stop.

It's OK to show sympathy. That's appreciated. Just know that you can't cure me, and you can't make me feel better. I'm sorry, I know it's a bummer, but that's the way it is, and I would wager that most people living with any chronic disease will espouse similar thoughts.

Oh yeah, this also applies to autism. You can't cure my kid either, but thanks for trying! I'll write a post on the 'tism experience later.

So that's it. I know this probably wasn't entertaining, uplifting, or even funny, but sometimes things need to be addressed directly, and if this helps you to understand what not to do in the future, I'll call that a win.

As always, thanks for reading.

Dad out.

Recent revelations and rabbit holes have revealed that I may be autistic. This probability has driven me to self-reflect and ask many questions about my life. One question that's been eating at my brain is the fact that I excelled at military service and how could an autistic person do so well in such a rigid profession? The only answer I keep coming back to is the Army must be autistic.

Now there is a fine line to walk here. Not all autism is the same and is therefore categorized into different levels. I would classify the Army and myself as being Level 1, which is "Requiring Support". Individuals that fall into this tier are described as potentially needing some support but are otherwise independent. Perfect, I've always required some support in my life, and the Army requires all kinds of support...like money to operate. I think this is where we'll draw our line and begin our discovery of the autistic Army. Let's take a look at some of the personality traits that actually make the Army autistic.

A Strict Reliance on Routine

This is soooo obvious! The Army thrives on routine. When I was still in, I had several "administrative roles". A good portion of my career was in operations, and this is where I learned that the Army likes to take routine to the extreme. The Army likes EVERYTHING planned and therefore goes to great lengths to ensure this, often creating training schedules that span out years in advance.

Typically when we got into short-term planning (days to weeks) from the execution of a training plan, it was just securing assets and fine-tuning details frequently down to the minute. This entire process was done to satiate the Army's autistic need to have a routine in an otherwise chaotic profession. Just think about it: what is more autistic than perseverating on what you're going to do years in advance and then becoming dysregulated (yelling and screaming) when that plan isn't executed fully? Autism.

Intense Hyper-Focused Interests

The Army loves hyper-focusing on things that it deems "important". This will often lead Soldiers down many different rabbit holes in the quest of "gathering information" or becoming a "subject-matter expert" on any given military topic. This type of extreme focus, many would argue, is nothing more than a strong work ethic and the willful desire to do your best. That's a fair assumption, but I will provide a brief personal anecdote just to illustrate this claim.

About 5 years into my career, I applied for and was accepted to join a highly specialized, small team. I won't go into specifics, but this team was extremely technical and had the possibility of actual real-world danger.

Shortly after my initial schooling was complete, my team leader took me and another new guy into our conference room and started drilling us on the nitty-gritty specifics of different pieces of equipment that we were supposed to know about and employ.

I say "supposed to know" because through this exercise he revealed that "we didn't know shit" and that was unacceptable. To give you context on what we were being quizzed on, it would be the equivalent of memorizing an instruction manual spanning hundreds of pages. Some of the questions were so insanely obscure that at one point, I thought the entire boondoggle was a joke. It was not. So, I became hyper-focused on learning all the aforementioned information, and I did learn it because...autism.

Emotional Dysregulation and Meltdowns

This is another one that should be apparent, but I'll expand anyway because I want to. There is an ongoing public perception of how the military and subsequently the Army present themselves. If you were asked to envision the Army in general, I would hazard to guess that a glaring drill sergeant pops into your head. Who is more dysregulated than a drill sergeant? No one, that's who.

These cats are constantly yelling, even when they don't have to, not to mention that they fly off the handle about the craziest things. Leave a corner on your bunk slightly untucked—essentially breaking their sacred visual routine—and boom: "OMG what is this!!!!! AHhhhhhhhHHH, FIX IT NOW PRIVATE!" That right there is a textbook autistic meltdown.

When I was in basic training, I literally saw a drill sergeant lose his mind in front of our eyes. I don't even remember what the offense was, but I'll never forget his words in response, "OH NO, Craaaazzyyyy!" It was as if he were transforming into a werewolf right before our eyes, his face and eyes contorted while verbalizing his exact thoughts, which should've probably been kept inside, buried deep down like all the subsequent trauma inflicted on us unsuspecting privates in the aftermath.

Needless to say, Soldiers have extreme emotional dysregulation, which is most likely issued to them by the Army at CIF. The list of these meltdowns is infinite in my experience. I've seen all kinds of people who were calm one second and then completely lost it the next because a plan shifted or an item was out of place. These individuals were usually in the higher ranks, and I can only guess this phenomenon is enhanced by longer times spent in the Army because the Army inherently makes you autistic.

Social or Communication Challenges

This definitely overlaps with dysregulation but caters to the Army's inability to function in civil or polite society. If you've ever spent any time around Soldiers you'll begin to notice a few distinct patterns in communication.

Soldiers are typically very blunt, which is also a trait of autistic behavior. I'm guilty of most of the items on this list, but this one especially applies to me. I and many other Soldiers like me have no problem giving you their unadulterated opinion on you or any topic that you may want an opinion on. This is also very apparent if we don't like something because we usually have no issue telling you what we don't like and why it should stop.

Despite our communication challenges, the Army often likes to engage in a social activity appropriately titled "mandatory fun". These "fun" social events are mandated by leadership, and Soldiers are often encouraged to invite families to these mandatory outings. They are typically not fun, and everyone knows it. I think they continue these exercises in futility because that's what the normies expect us to do. But, if you've ever been to one of these events, expect lots of milling about in awkward silence.

Again, I could go on about the yelling and screaming and how that ties into the inability to appropriately express oneself, but I've already covered that.

So there ya have it, just a small glimpse and very scientific review of why the Army has autism. I may even be able to make the claim that the Army gave me autism, which would add one more thing to my ever-growing list of challenges. One thing is for certain: there is a place for everyone, and if you need just a little support because of your level-1 autism, the Army is the place for you! You are welcome to drop me a line and let me know your thoughts. I would love to bluntly give you my opinion on them.

Dad out.

You may recall that I recently had a colonoscopy, and I wrote ad nauseam about that procedure. You are probably also considering that I may have an obsession with all things involving the butt... I do not. What I do have are recurring medical issues, which consume a large portion of my life, and I get to share all of these maladies with you. It's so riveting!

I recently got the results of the biopsy my good doctor took during the procedure. I wasn't expecting anything to come up on the results, but then I got "the call." Furthermore, I don't know how many of you have ever gotten a phone call about less-than-desirable results, but they usually follow a standard framework that's employed by every unfortunate medical assistant who has to deliver bad news. It sounds a lot like this:

"Hello?" "Hi! Is this [insert your name here]?" "This is he." "Hi (they always get me with the double 'hi'), this is [random MA] from [random doctor's] office. How are you?" "I'm fine, thank you?" (I always answer this as an interrogative because they rarely ask this question unless something is wrong.) "Good, good. I'm calling to let you know that we got your biopsy results [or any negative results] back, and [random doctor] would like you to come into the office."

This is where they absolutely don't tell you why; they would prefer to leave you guessing as to why the doctor—who you just saw, and who said he would see you again in five years—wants you to come into his office.

I like to get straight to the point, so I just flat-out ask, "So, was there something on the biopsy I should be concerned about?"

"Weellll, it says here that your results show that you have [random disease] and that's why he would like you to come in."

I get bad news all the time when it comes to my health, so nothing really shocks me or upsets me anymore. This usually provides great relief to the caller when I, in my cheeriest voice, say, "Sounds great, thank you so much!" Then we proceed with scheduling, or whatever objective they're trying to achieve. I get it. You never want to be the one to give someone bad news, so I try to make the landing as easy as possible for these folks.

Now that you have a mental visualization of how the call went, the random disease in this case was a diagnosis of lymphocytic colitis. Awesome!

Lymphocytic colitis is a microscopic colitis, meaning that you can't see it during a regular colonoscopy; it has to be diagnosed from a biopsy under a microscope. This disease also has no cure but is highly manageable, and as far as chronic conditions go, it's not that bad. The hallmarks are watery diarrhea and abdominal pain, both of which I've had for years without any major impact on my life. Not too bad; I'll take some meds, get it under control, and move on.

Unfortunately, it's not that easy because, as I've stated, I have other issues. The gold standard of treatment is corticosteroids... which I'm allergic to. I also have osteoporosis, and apparently, steroids only enhance the brittleness of your bones. Not to mention these supposedly weaken the immune system, and I already have a severely weakened immune system. I know, I suck. I sent a message to the doc about how we should proceed, but I'm still waiting on a reply... 3 days later. You can review my thoughts on this phenomenon here.

So, this got me pondering the other night. Like that famous statue, The Thinker, except in my case, I have my phone in one hand and my fist under my chin while sitting on my newly installed bidet toilet because I have colitis. How many people out there are like me? So I turned to Gemini—someone has to keep all of these newly minted data centers in business.

Haha! That's right, I'm 1 in a quadrillion! I don't even have context for that number, but I know it's big. My momma always told me I was special, and now I have proof. Maybe just not the "special" I would've liked, but I'll take what I can get. I showed my wife this, and she wholeheartedly agreed that I was definitely "special" and affirmed that I am 1 in a quadrillion. I like validation sometimes. I continued to read, and the reality of it set in.

WTF? Did Gemini just inadvertently justify a previous entry, My Medical Chart Makes Me Think I'm a 70-Year-Old Woman? You bet it did. Once again, sweet, sweet validation. I think the best part about all of this is I now know for certain that I am indeed special. There's nothing like finding out you're one-of-a-kind, even though people have been telling me how special I am throughout my life.

In all seriousness, don't sweat bad news; most of the time, there isn't much you can do to change it. At least that's been the theme in my case. Just continue to be a honey badger: it doesn't give a shit.

Dad out.

Sometimes, things just break.

This is a hard concept to teach a child, and often a harder concept for us adults, too. We went camping again this past week, and as always, we packed my oldest daughter’s favorite scooter. It was a gift from her grandparents a couple of years ago, and she absolutely loves it. She just loves zooming around the campgrounds with the fervor and excitement that any seven-year-old would have when handed that type of unbridled freedom.

Recently, she brought to my attention that her beloved scooter—the one with the pink footboard and the light-up wheels—was making "weird sounds" and not rolling like it used to. I'm sure you can imagine the feelings of serious concern and dismay written all over her face. I assured her that I would take a look and figure something out so she could keep rollin' on her light-up dubs (20cm, not inches).

Being the resourceful person that I am, I already had a can of white lithium grease on hand, typically used to reduce friction from metal-on-metal action. My wife often believes that I am "over-prepared" and buys things "that we won't use and don't need." Usually, she's right. But in this case, I was about to come out looking like a hero.

I took my rattle-can of grease and began my inspection of the girliest scooter of all time. In reality, this thing had been loved to the point of extreme degradation. Joints were rusted. The wheels, regardless of their heady glow when spinning, had developed a permanent patina of dirt. The footboard was scratched all to hell, and the detachable teal handlebar was showing signs of heavy abuse.

I found several glaring problems that I hoped I could put a band-aid on with the lithium grease currently shaking in my hand. The wheel bearings were completely shot, and the foot brake was so floppy that it sounded like a consistently timed snare drum whenever she rode it.

I set to greasing all the rotating parts as best I could and had her ride the thing to work it into the cracks and crevices. After a lap or two, she reported that it "was much better!" despite the unfixable flop of her brake. Great! Who wouldn't want a little speed metal while they scoot?

This all went down a day or two before our departure for the campground. We made it to our destination, and like always, the scooter came out. She was off, zipping around the campsite. I felt good about "fixing" something, and she felt good because she was back on her cherished ride.

Until she wasn't.

We were all hanging around outside the camper after dinner when she rolled up on us, exclaiming that something was wrong again. I took a look and realized this was probably the end. The two front wheels had developed a unique, unintentional camber, and upon closer inspection, the back wheels presented with two blown-out bearings. I couldn't fix that.

I had to tell her it was time to retire her friend to that great big playground in the sky.

This is the part that gets me every time as a dad. Her eyes started to well up with tears, but she calmly accepted the fate of her two-wheeled ticket to freedom. It's at these moments that I'm reminded I'm not a completely heartless fiend. Those unshed tears of sadness pulled at my heart in the heaviest of ways. Regardless of how silly it is to be upset over a piece of rusted metal and plastic, I found myself feeling incredibly proud and deeply sad at the exact same time.

Upon coming home, I took one last look at "the most beautiful scooter in the world" to see if there was any chance of resurrection. There wasn't. After giving it a final once-over, I realized that the steering linkage on the front had completely fractured. This thing was kaput. I asked my big girl if it was OK if I threw it in the trash, and she agreed without controversy.

I may get some eye-rolls on this one, but I had some emotions when I tossed that thing into our smelly, green Waste Management can. I maybe even had a tear or two well up myself (none were shed, for the record; I'm a man!). It wasn't the scooter itself that brought upon these feelings, but what it represented: something loved to the point of failure, and the undeniable end of an era.

I suppose I should tell you that I had already ordered a regular, two-wheeled scooter before we ever left the campground. The wheels will still light up, and I'm almost positive that it's pink again, but this one will be sized appropriately for her.

I think that's what really got me. Realizing that she's growing up, and knowing that I won't be able to just grab a can of lithium grease to resolve every problem that comes her way.

Kids grow up, things break, and people break. The one constant through all of it is that I will always love my girls, and I will always try to fix things when they break... even when it's their heart.

Dad out.

What does America mean to me?

I know I give our current state of affairs a hard time on this blog. But that doesn't change the bottom line: I love this country. I love it enough that I volunteered to serve during two active wars, driven by a pure intent to protect people. I believed in that calling then, and I still believe it today—regardless of the missteps our nation has taken over the years. One person can always make a difference.

As I sit here quietly smoking a couple racks of ribs, I’m truly thankful for the life I’ve had and the sheer luck of growing up in the United States. I'm not turning a blind eye to the heavy realities we're facing right now, but sometimes, you just have to sit back and count your blessings.

Here's to a very happy 4th of July to all the rebels out there. May your meats be perfectly smoked, and may your bourbon always come from Kentucky.

Thanks for being a part of the journey.

Respectfully, Beard Dad

In honor of 250 years of the republic—for which it stands... for now—I’m going to do one of the most American things possible: complain about politics.

Why on Earth would I do such a thing on such a hallowed day? Because I can! We’re living in the land of the free, baby! Home of the brave (me), and last I checked, I can still post whatever I want without the government stomping all over me (though that feels like a distinct possibility these days). I just can’t be too critical of our dear leader, or I might get swept up by ICE and deported to South America for the crime of being too American.

We are officially living in the stupidest timeline possible, and I have receipts.

I’m going to walk you through a series of screenshots I pulled from official government and political entities. Every single one of these dropped today. You can't make the argument that these are just rare, one-off glitches in the matrix. They aren't. They are part of a continuous stream of absurdity that has been flowing like a burning case of the clap (not that I’ve ever had it; it’s just what I hear) ever since this "administration"—which couldn't lead themselves out of a porta-potty—came into power.

Exhibit 1: Nuclear-Powered Climate Control

Nothing like taking a Founding Father entirely out of context to promote a problem that doesn’t even exist.

Oh my God. This is the federal agency responsible for the nation's nuclear weapons programs, and they are spending their afternoon posting shitty, deep-fried memes about window air conditioning units.

Naturally, I wondered if I was just being a huge, cynical bitch again. So, I took it to a high-level consult with my absolute best friend in the world, Gemini. Here is how that conversation went:

Woo! I knew I could count on my best friend to have my back. Apparently, Gemini claims this is a "proven engagement strategy" because typically dry federal agencies couldn't get anyone to pay attention to them until they started posting stupid shit online. Good to know. But leave it to my digital ride-or-die to validate the sheer whiplash of it all and keep me grounded.

Let's continue down this sewer hole.

Exhibit 2: Paging Dr. Trump

Behold: the "President of the United States of America." I’m typing out the full title for maximum psychological effect.

This is a real snapshot of an AI-generated video posted directly to the official leader of the free world's page. In this clip, our beloved leader falsely claims he is a licensed medical doctor who can cure people of "TDS"—Trump Derangement Syndrome.

Let’s unpack this. It is insanely, undeniably stupid for the sitting president of the most powerful nation in human history to put this out into the world. Are you kidding me? We have officially cascaded into a full-fledged Idiocracy. Someone just start kicking me in the balls right now to prepare me for my inevitable appearance on the soon-to-be show, Ow! My Balls!

Once again, I had to have a deep conversation with my best friend to find out if I was being a little bitch. Ask and thou shalt receive:

And people say AI will never replace humans! Look at that beautiful validation. Again, I am completely validated by my new best friend. Gemini agrees that this is completely absurd coming from our president.

I would humbly ask any remaining supporter of this administration: Are you actually proud of this? If your answer is an unironic "yes," you're probably an idiot.

Exhibit 3: The 2-Million Farm Fairytale

Let's finish this journey into madness and see what the official Republican Party has to say on the eve of our nation's 250th anniversary.

Oh, come on. Really? Can we at least try to fact-check a blatant lie? Or am I just being such a giant vageen that I’m incapable of seeing my own failures as a pseudo-intelligent American?

Turns out, I'm not crazy, and I'm not a complete idiot—though some comment sections may argue the point. The claim that these tax cuts "saved 2 million family farms" from the estate tax is pure fiction. What it does validate is that policies like these continue to benefit "the 1%". There are barely 1.88 million total farms in the entire country to begin with, and actual USDA data shows less than 1% of them would ever even trigger the estate tax. Nobody is seizing 2 million family farms. It’s a ghost story meant to scare the lowest common denominator, people that take Fox News seriously.

The Cold, Hard Mirror

Am I being a little petty on the eve of our nation’s birthday? No. Go F yourself.

This is the unfortunate reality we are living in under the Trump era, and it has to be addressed. Should we be proud of 250 years of the republic? Yes—if we exclude every single year that Trump has been in office. By my math, that means this is actually our 244th anniversary, because the fools keeping this shitshow in power have effectively stolen 6 years of genuine American dignity and history.

So please, celebrate our 244th responsibly this weekend and enjoy the holiday. I'm not trying to ruin anyone's good time. But remember this: we don’t have a whole lot to be proud of in our current, circus-like state. If we don’t take a cold, hard look in the mirror and demand some actual gravitas from our leaders and institutions, we aren't going to survive another 244 years. Oh yeah, we're also not the "freest country in the world". According to the Cato Institute, we're actually 15th. Way to be mediocre. Happy Independence Day, ya heathens.

Dad out.

What's up your ass?

When taken in a literal context, this phrase becomes more of a mystery than an admonishment. I recently had a colonoscopy to see precisely what was up my ass. If you're of an age where you've already had one, you already know what this is about. If not, or if you're just a younger person with health issues like me, I'll make the unmentionable... mentionable, so you don't have to.

I have a diminished immune system along with irritable bowel syndrome (IBS). For the unversed, I get this seesaw effect in my bowel patterns that teeters between constipation and diarrhea. In between that constant battle of ass-splosion and corked anus lies the occasional bout of severe abdominal pain. To treat this, I take a medication called Hyoscyamine (high-oh-SY-uh-meen); just try and pronounce that appropriately! The reason a diminished immune system is relevant is that I'm also greatly susceptible to long-term infections and serious ailments of the gut and bowel, such as colitis and C. diff. Hence, I'm on my second colonoscopy in three years at the ripe old age of 44.

I'm going to assume that everyone knows what a colonoscopy is, but I'll explain it anyway so I can boost my word count. In layman's terms, a colonoscopy is when a doctor sticks a camera up your butt to look around for various ailments of the bowel and colon. They will be checking for signs of colitis, cancer, and other issues, remedying them during the procedure if possible. Here's how my experience went.

Approximately a week before your procedure, you are supposed to stop all blood thinners and a few other medications. This is so you don't run the risk of bleeding profusely through your anus and into your abdomen during the procedure. Nothing like an Ebola-adjacent experience to get people excited! Keep in mind, this runs the gamut of pain medications. So, if you're like me and have a few extra miles on the body, you have a lot of joint pain. This is mercilessly aggravated by not being able to take anything. Therefore: fun.

When getting closer to your ass-excavation date—usually a few days prior—they ask you to stop eating nuts and corn. These stubborn foods don't fully digest, meaning they can obscure the doctor's vision and potentially clog the suction tube on the "delicate" scope inside your delicate anus. No big deal, but we live in Ohio, and everything has corn in it. It's really not a huge hurdle unless you subsist solely on these items. In complete irony, we had some friends over for a small gathering exactly three days before my scope. I had forgotten entirely about the rule until my wife reminded me... while I was endlessly stuffing my face with a roasted corn dip. Oops.

The day before your procedure, you can't eat anything solid, and you absolutely cannot consume anything with red, blue, or purple dye (unless you want your doctor to think your colon is an active crime scene). So, nothing good. What this means is by the time you actually get there, you will not have eaten anything for approximately 36 hours. Now, I've trained my entire adult life for these moments, as I have a "few pounds" of emergency reserves. I do this to ensure that I'm not the first person to die when the inevitable famine or zombie apocalypse hits the United States. Smart—stocking up now in preparation for tomorrow.

Along with the clear-liquid diet, they recommend clear broths and non-pigmented fruit juices. No thanks. I tried the broth, and it was less than satisfying. Nothing quite like a HOT beverage during an extreme heat advisory! So, I just kept hydrated with the usual: water. Hydrate or die!

For my previous procedure, I had to drink a concoction of unpronounceable components for the better part of the day to completely clear out my system. To put it bluntly, it makes you shit your brains out. This go-around, I was given a new protocol: two pre-measured bottles of Ass-Blaster 5000. You drink the first dose at 4 PM and the second dose at 9 PM the day prior. You space each dose out by drinking 8 oz every 15 minutes until it's gone. It tastes terrible and has the consistency of mucus, so it's effortless to get down. They even did me the favor of including "flavor-enhancing packets" that I didn't notice until after my procedure was over... so it tasted wonderful without them. Once you are at the point of spraying a clear, viscous fluid out of your ass, you are officially ready to be scoped.

You aren't supposed to have ANYTHING after midnight the day of your procedure. So, you show up to the hospital dehydrated, starved, and tired. Tired because they have you start your second dose at 9 PM, subsequently forcing you to become best friends with your toilet late into the night. You can imagine the mental state one would be in under these circumstances. You aren't fun.

Upon arriving at your place of anal exploration, you finish any outstanding paperwork and are herded back to the prep area, where you disrobe and don an open-back gown. After you become "trauma-naked," a nurse gently jabs a port into your arm in preparation for sleepy time and an adult episode of Dora the Explorer.

This is the part where the Army prepared me exceptionally well: "hurry up and wait." After all the aforementioned prep, you are left waiting until your doctor is ready to receive you—and then things start moving fast. A new nurse hurriedly moves you to the procedure room, quickly hooking you up to oxygen, vitals, and the good stuff after verifying your information for the 100th time that day. The doctor comes in to talk to you like a doting old grandparent who's about to take pictures of your insides, and then you're started on your journey to sleepy town.

I love anesthesia. Love it. The reason I love it is that it is the only time my brain is switched completely off. This miraculous effect doesn't occur during sleep, waking, or anything else. My brain is constantly moving a mile a minute, and it can be exhausting, so these brief reprieves during an intravenous TKO are cherished.

This is where I inadvertently made things fun. I told you this wasn't my first rodeo having a camera up my ass. What I failed to mention is that the first time I had this done, I was awake throughout the entire procedure. Yes, I was. It's important to note that my memory is hazy here because I was drugged, but clearly not sufficiently enough to make me go night-night. I informed my doctor and nurses of this prior excursion, and I think they took it as a challenge. My doc said, "Well, we can't have that, can we?" Challenge accepted. So, as they lay me down to sleep, my last recollection for the majority of the day was, "Oh, this feels nice. I hope I go to..."

And I was a goner, dude! I remember nothing until approximately 4 PM that day.

Luckily, my wife was there to take in all the day's proceedings—things such as me swearing that I was good to go to a sit-down restaurant immediately after the procedure. I was speaking to everyone like I wasn't under the influence, noting that, had she not known better, I would have passed off as being completely fine. There were other stories I was regaled with but had zero recollection of, and I'm done embarrassing the family enough for one update.

So that was it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. You're probably wondering what the outcome was. I had a polyp that may or may not be pre-cancerous, but my doctor felt confident it was benign. He also confirmed that I did indeed have IBS and hemorrhoids, and he took biopsy samples from various parts of my colon. Super easy. I got to stuff my rapidly emaciating face with Maple Street Biscuits and take a much-needed brain vacation. I hope this has inspired you to take a similar journey.

Furthermore, I know talking about this stuff can be uncomfortable for plenty of people. Colon cancer is one of the largest killers of young people today, but it is highly treatable if discovered early. Don't be ashamed to talk to your doctor about your bowel habits, especially going into great detail about your poop and how you poop. It may just be a lifesaver one day. My kids share stories about poop all the time, so if you take a page out of their book, it shouldn't be a big deal and could even be something quite fun.

In summary, go find out what's up your ass if something's bothering you. There is never a reason not to. You are welcome to drop me a line about your ass-capades to let me know that I'm not alone. Thanks!

Dad out... of toilet paper.

I think lifelong learning is one of the key aspects of keeping your mind sharp. I'm not saying that you have to constantly audit classes at a university. But doing things as simple as reading—or, in my case, learning a new language at the ripe age of 44—is great for keeping the ol' grey matter in good shape.

The last time I formally studied a language was in college, where I took four quarters of Arabic. Arabic is a notoriously hard language, but I thought, “English is a hard language too; why not?”

What an idiot.

I didn't do well in Arabic, but I didn't do poorly either. I was just average. I hovered somewhere in the B-C range throughout those four quarters, but I was proud of those average grades because, like I said, Arabic is hard. I was mildly conversational at one point, but now? Now I can just read things that I don't understand. You want a cool party trick? Learn an alphabet completely unlike your own and wow people with your ability to read it out loud with ZERO comprehension of what you just said. Me so smart.

Fast-forward nearly twenty years, and we now have such an abundance of self-directed language learning software that I suffered a severe case of the paradox of choice. I eventually settled on two different software models to learn Spanish because the American way of life got the better of me: more is better, right? I landed on Duolingo as a free model and Babbel as a one-time paid subscription. Furthermore, I previewed several different software suites but landed on those two because I like to make random decisions with absolutely no logical reasoning.

Haha, that's not true. It follows my common theme of being cheap, and those were the best deals.

I have to give you some backstory here, as my poor wife gets quite weary of my constant shifting of interests and endeavors. She flat-out asked me, "Aren't you a little old to be learning Spanish?"

Yes. But I was going to do it anyway because I have Oppositional Defiance Disorder and, "You can't tell me what to do, Tina!" My wife fairly accused me of executing another whim that I would quickly lose interest in and subsequently quit. Well, joke's on you, Tina; I'm currently on a 223-day streak on Duo, baby! Haha, look at that!

You're probably asking what I've actually learned in my 223 days of consistent learning. Well, all kinds of things. I know where the closest mercado is and how to order tres cervezas. All very useful life skills. But I found one thing glaringly lacking in both pieces of software and in language learning as a whole:

Where are the curse words?

My wife is well-versed in the Spanish language, so I asked her to teach me some cussing. She didn't know any because they didn't teach that in the first grade. Bah! She also says I curse too much in my writing. That's horseshit.

I firmly believe that, when done correctly, cursing is one of the finest forms of communication. Sure, it's not fit for polite conversation, yet almost everyone I know curses in some form or fashion. I'm talking about even the most perceivably proper individuals letting out the occasional curse word when presented with the appropriate opportunity.

This led me to ponder, as I often do, a few things: Why don't teachers and software teach you a language's cursing, especially when it's so intrinsic to the culture? And why is cursing so damn satisfying?

There have been several theories regarding a correlation between cursing and increased intelligence, but as they say, correlation does not equal causation. From a purely scientific perspective, psychologists Timothy Jay and Kristin Jay note that increased cursing is actually a sign of verbal fluency, not necessarily intelligence. It follows an almost obvious pattern: the larger your overall vocabulary, the more curse words you'll know. That's fun, but what else can we glean from dropping an F-bomb?

Cursing is scientifically proven to lessen pain. This can be observed universally; when someone experiences a pain response, you can almost guarantee they're going to belch out an expletive.

• Ever stub your toe? "Shit!"
• Break a bone? "Fk!"
• Drop a hammer on your toe? "Damn it!"

According to researchers, letting out a solid curse word can lessen perceived pain by up to 33%. That's huge. What an astonishing benefit of the uneloquent. It also perfectly explains why I curse so much.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find any scientific data on why cursing isn't taught in traditional learning, but people have numerous opinions on the matter. In summary, it boils down to being "polite." Perceivably foul language could offend someone's more delicate senses in a classroom environment and is therefore omitted.

Poppycock! Words, no matter how offensive, are still part of a language and should be taught to unsuspecting learners. That way, they aren't caught off guard when they inevitably butcher the dialect in front of a native speaker and are appropriately insulted.

I'm not sure that we've actually learned anything useful through this exercise, but I do know a few things. I'm going to continue to curse because I like to be pain-free, and I'm going to learn how to curse in foreign languages because I want to know if someone is insulting me. Furthermore, I would like to know this so I can politely congratulate them on their expansive verbal fluency. Additionally, it's important to know these words so people know when you're in pain while visiting far-off lands. How else would they know that you need el hospital?

My fatherly advice for the day is to continue to learn new things throughout your life. It will often take you to interesting places and introduce you to interesting people whom you can offend in exciting new ways. I encourage my girls to explore and learn new things daily, but they usually ignore me, so I get to tell you instead.

Padre fuera.

Making Memories (Whether We Like It or Not)

Recently, you may have read that we went on an epic family vacation. It was long for us, and we had a good time. You may also recall that we have a five-year-old autistic daughter. Traveling—and specifically doing anything in a "normal" way—is extremely challenging when you have an autistic child.

I know many parents of profoundly autistic children can commiserate. I also know the parenting experience is wildly different between typical kids and autistic kids. We know this because we have one of each, and we thought we liked variety.

So what? We have a little challenge in parenting; everyone does, right? Yes, but the two are not the same. So, I’m going to give you a unique glimpse into the lived experience of a family navigating the wild with autism. During our vacation, two very distinct events reminded us that we are definitely not having a typical experience.

Our oldest daughter is seven, and our youngest is five. I will refer to my oldest as Turd 1 (T1) and my youngest as Turd 2 (T2)—not to be confused with Terminators, maybe.

My wife is an excellent planner of activities; for real, she's next-level. She refuses to let a single minute of schedule "white space" go unfilled throughout the day, and that often translates to EVERYONE having a filled day when we are together.

The Setup: A "Family-Friendly" Lie

My wife planned what should’ve been a lovely, easy hike that everyone in the whole family could enjoy and, most importantly, complete.

This was a lie.

We made our way over to the "family-friendly" trail after already completing a two-mile hike through a gorge in the rain. No big deal, right? Everyone is a little wet and tired, but spirits are high. Oh, how wrong we were.

We arrived at the trail and began our approach, following the signs for the designated scenic lookout my wife desired to see. The terrain was extremely rocky, wet, and muddy. I led with T1, putting a 10-to-20-foot gap in our column so T2 could follow me. (If we hike too close together, T2 constantly pulls on me asking me to carry her, and as previously noted, she beefy.)

Round 1: The Muddy Retreat

The hike started out slow but okay. I kept checking behind me, and my wife and T2 were making progress. But as we progressed, the terrain became more erratic, rocky, and—in my humble opinion—dangerous for a 45-pound living weeble wobble.

We were continuously passing (and being passed by) other hikers, often waiting precariously on elevated rocks. Then, I saw it: My wife was having to constantly lift and place T2 because our youngest simply couldn't traverse the terrain. Also, the hikers coming back from the lookout looked gassed and warned us that it got a lot worse.

That’s when I called it. No more. Not safe. We're going back.

It should be a no-brainer, right? Apparently, I have no brain, because this unilateral decision instantly launched my wife and me into a heated, albeit abbreviated, row. Tensions flared. I may have been engulfed in flames for just the tiniest of moments, taking daggers from my wife's eyes (not wholly unjustified).

We executed our exodus back to the car, where further "words" were exchanged.

My wife and I are both extremely hard-headed individuals. I will go the extra mile to die on a hill I believe in, and safety is one of those hills. For her, executing the plan is the hill. We were at an impasse. Finally, I offered a compromise: Let's try the trail from the opposite direction (supposedly easier) and I’ll pack T2 if it gets too rough.

Round 2: Death Stranding Dad

So there we were, back in the parking lot. Round 2, FIGHT!

I strapped on the kid-toting backpack and started the advance with T1. The wife and T2 were moving up the trail at a steady pace. Nice. Maybe we can do this.

Then, the smooth, ambling trail became steep steps of natural stone interspersed with flat areas of trodden mud.

Backpack time. I began to load up our tiniest turd to get us all the way through, doing this against the apparent admonition from my wife that I was "going to break something because she’s too heavy." Honestly, it’s a fair concern. T2 is 40-45 pounds (depending on if she’s had a good poop that day), meaning I was pushing 55 pounds of new weight on a body that legitimately has osteoporosis.

But guess what? I'm a man, and I do stupid things! You can't tell me what to do because my Oppositional Defiance Disorder instantly gives me the compulsion to do the opposite. So, I loaded up my tiny package like Norman Reedus in Death Stranding, and we continued our trek.

Wow, we're moving so much faster! I'm only mildly uncomfortable!

The trail continued to be rocky and steep, but doable with deliberate movements. We finally found a nice outcropping to rest and gaze at the remarkable beauty of nature.

And then, the trail started descending.

The Epiphany and the Rear-Nekkid Choke

We came to a 40-degree downward slope of pure rocks. I took a good, long, hard look at it, and logic finally won out. If I try this and it goes south, it's not just me that gets hurt. We don't always like our kids, but we always love them and don't want them injured.

Being the good Soldier/Boy Scout that I am, I pulled out two walkie-talkies. I handed one to my wife, conducted a proper radio check, and turned back. My wife and T1 would finish the trail; T2 and I would take our march of shame back to the car.

Going downhill with a load is infinitely harder than going uphill. About a mile in, my knees and back were aching. I was sweating. It was raining on and off. I most likely looked—and rightfully felt—like a giant, wet sack of shit.

This is where having a non-verbal child is a blessing. I was cursing about this God-forsaken trail the entire way back, talking entirely to myself. Sporadically, I’d turn my head to check on T2. She would just smile and start playing her own version of Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes—a version where she tries to poke me in the eyes, smack the top of my head, and put me in a rear-naked choke.

If anything, she keeps things interesting.

And there I was... wet, tired, overladen, and mumbling to myself when I had an epiphany: Am I enjoying this misery?

Yes. I was. And I think T2 was as well, given the giggles that accompanied her chokeholds.

T2, all tuckered out from choking me out.

The Takeaway

We finally made our way back to the car, radioed our advance party, and waited. They eventually came off the trail, all smiles, and we loaded up for lunch.

"Well, whoopty-doo, Beard Dad! You had a hard hike; why should I care?"

The fact is, you shouldn't. But I hope this simple, drawn-out story makes you think and maybe even appreciate the people and moments we have with one another. Life is really hard for some, but it doesn't invalidate everyone's individual experiences. I was tired, frustrated, and admittedly a little defeated. But my kids ended up having a good time, my wife had a good time, and who would have thought? I experienced a little joy myself.

Living isn't always clean, nice, and happy. We're people. We do people things, like get mad at each other and curse in front of our non-verbal kids from time to time. But it doesn't take away from the fact that at the end of the day, we still love each other.

As my mother-in-law often says when things are going awry, "We're making memories!"

Indeed we are.

Dad out.

TRIGGER WARNING: This post is going to piss some people off. If you're weak of mind, body, and soul, just keep scrolling because this will likely hurt your feelings.

"Haha, whatever Beard Dad, I don't get offended! I'm no snowflake."

Fair enough. If you’re still reading, buckle up.

Most Americans aren't patriotic, even though they’re entirely convinced they are. I am a patriotic person, but I don't confuse the word patriotism with blind loyalty. So, if you're one of those Americans sporting improperly displayed, tattered flags year-round, getting outraged over football players kneeling for the anthem, and thinking anyone left of center is a communist, this post is for you. You aren't a patriot. You just play one on the internet.

"Whoa, pump the brakes, Beard Dad! That's a mighty bold statement. I love America!"

It is bold, and I don't care. I've been to 44 out of 50 states, and I pay attention. One of the most glaring patterns across this country is the loose definition of "patriot" that people hide behind. Merriam-Webster defines a patriot as "one who loves and supports their country." Seems obvious, right? It isn't.

Let's explore this. We hear the word nationalism thrown around a lot lately. What's the difference? Merriam-Webster defines nationalism as "an ideology that elevates one nation or nationality above all others and that places primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests."

Patriotism and nationalism are not synonyms, and therein lies the problem for most self-proclaimed "patriots."

And before you start whining that I’m painting with too broad a brush or unfairly lumping "patriots" in with extremists—save your breath. I know exactly what I'm looking at.

We are living in an era where the line between "mainstream political rhetoric" and "white nationalist manifesto" has been completely erased. When the people you vote for are openly peddling the "Great Replacement" theory, when the government strips domestic terrorism classifications from white supremacist groups, and when politicians use literal neo-Nazi talking points as campaign slogans, you don't get to hide behind the American flag anymore. You aren't just "conservative." You are actively participating in an ideology built by fascists, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.

This revelation hit me hard while driving through impoverished, rural communities in the Northeast and my home state of Ohio. It is a surreal experience to drive through obvious American squalor and simultaneously see massive, blatant displays of this exact brand of "patriotism" screaming from the porches. You see a similar phenomenon in affluent, predominantly white suburbs—they share the exact same ideology as their rural cousins, just wrapped in a more polite, expensive presentation (usually omitting the rebel flag, for example).

It is a sea of American flags, accompanied by the classic "Don't Tread on Me" banners, Confederate flags, and aging Trump signs. Let's call it what it is: at best, they are nationalists, which isn't a title to be proud of.

"So, what's wrong with being a nationalist? I love America!"

There is nothing wrong with being proud of your country and your heritage (provided your "heritage" isn't just a thinly veiled excuse for bigotry, white supremacy, or some other dumbshit hate group). But the real rot is the idea of American exceptionalism. Are we, as a people, inherently exceptional? No.

It only takes one interaction with a card-carrying MAGA diehard to know that Americans are not exceptional. What is exceptional is the system that was put in place 250 years ago and enshrined in our Constitution. That unique system of government is the only American exceptionalism I will argue for—and even that borrows heavily from the Romans, Greeks, and Venetians. So, get off your high horse. You ain't that special.

So, what is the point of this rant?

The point is that most of these loud, self-proclaimed patriots have done absolutely nothing to better our country. Sure, you buy a flag made in China, go to a 4th of July parade, and vote. But what has the average citizen actually sacrificed for the greater good? Usually, nothing.

Have you served in the nation's military? Have you peacefully dissented against government overreach? Have you held public office? Are you a good neighbor and a decent human being? That is patriotism.

Unless you are actively serving your neighbors out of love for them and the country you live in, you are just a nationalist. And if that's the case, take a real look in the mirror and ask yourself, "Am I really a patriot?" I would wager that you can't truthfully answer that question. So, let's get back to building the country I actually fought for—that shining beacon on a hill—instead of the literal deteriorating swamp on Capitol Hill.

Dad out.

I'm so sorry I've been gone. I hope everyone has gotten along without me as we embarked on the greatest of all American vacations: the Great American Road Trip. That's right, we packed our little 24' camper and car to the brim with all kinds of "shit that we would need," effectively used about 50% of that "needed shit," and embarked on a nearly 2,000-mile journey across the Northeast United States with our little family and home-on-wheels in tow.

I have... some thoughts.

First off, we had a great time. We really did. But like any environment, when you put people in close quarters, there will be emotions, and let's just say, interesting exchanges. Just think back to college and remember the Stanford Prison Experiment. In this experiment, I'm the prisoner and my kids, are the guards. BUT, we made it through this adventure with our marriage intact and both kids still alive... mostly. Our youngest looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame coming home. One eye was literally swollen shut from a bug bite, and she meandered about mumbling inaudible phrases that no one but us could decipher. "The bells!"

There are many things to observe while traveling across the United States, and being the observant person that I am, I noticed a few patterns starting to emerge.

Our journey started in Pennsylvania, specifically Presque Isle. It was lovely. We stayed in a private campground that appeared to offer peaceful tranquility on its website. Part of that tranquility was because it was surrounded by a large industrial complex! Awesome. I have to offer a short backstory: we typically stay in state or federal parks, which are usually spectacular. This trip, we were staying solely in private campgrounds due to a lack of public availability. With that being said, I believe this was our first experience staying in a private campground. Regardless of the interesting surroundings, the campground itself was nice and predominantly quiet. Our site was right on a bay that was part of Lake Erie. It had a lovely view.

Nice, right?

I caught this majestic bastard mid-flight. Who knew Lake Erie could look so... nice? Weird.

And it was nice. Despite the insane location, we had a predominantly good experience—regardless of the tornado sirens and an incredibly strong storm that rolled through an hour after we pulled in.

Next, we made our way to Mount Morris, NY, to adventure through Letchworth State Park. This was another mom-and-pop, family-owned campground nestled in the hills of New York, not far from the park and a short drive away from the Finger Lakes region. Our campsite was, again, absolutely charming. It overlooked a valley, and we were surrounded by things for the kids to do.

How pleasant.

Holding true to the current theme, it was pleasant, and this is when I started to see a pattern emerge. Private campgrounds all have their own "vibe," meaning no two are quite alike. In contrast to the previous spot, this one seemed to be more of a party destination. The camp store was festooned with magnets and tchotchkes, blatantly bragging about the copious amounts of alcohol one might drink, or espousing the opinion that booze makes everything better. The wife and I kept musing that this place must be wild on the weekends, because during our stay, it was quiet and somewhat dead. I even recall that their webpage advertised a "campground crawl" weekend. What better way to go camping than to get hammered and meander through a campsite with a bunch of strangers? I can think of a million other things I would rather do.

Regardless, this campground really was great, and the ownership was warm and accommodating. Also, Letchworth State Park was astonishing! Copious waterfalls and vistas were found throughout, and this hidden gem touts itself as "The Grand Canyon of the East." It really was. I would highly recommend taking a day here if you ever find yourself in the area.

Marvelous.

Our next stop brought us to the Green Mountains of Vermont. What can I say about the Green Mountains? They are green, and they are mountains. They are also beautiful! Verdant, rolling peaks with wide-open skies that make the heart sing.

WOW!

This campground was one of a kind. A true family-owned and operated spot. The interesting part was that it wasn't commercialized at all. The owner communicates solely through email, which, at first, I found quite odd. After arriving, I figured out why. He and maybe a few of his immediate family members were the only staff on hand. It makes sense to keep a form of communication that isn't immediate but allows you to be responsive based on precedence. Smart.

The other part of this campground's overall vibe was that rules were few and met only the very basic requirements to keep the place functioning. It was refreshing not to have to worry about all the tiny nuances of typical campground rules. This was the only place where the owner didn't care if I flew a drone. Worth every second, just for that.

I also have to be transparent and say that we drove six hours through high winds and fierce storms to get to this site. When we finally arrived, the poor owner was working hard to clear debris and trees that hadn't survived the weather, but he didn't fail to offer us his very best hospitality. A real personal touch. There was also an abundance of ramshackle buildings, which made the area even more fun to explore, and some of the more colorful permanent campers gave off a mountain-hippy vibe, adding to the overall motif. This was one of our favorite sites; it was entirely unique, offered beautiful mountain views, and was run by friendly, interesting people.

Woo!

We continued to the White Mountains of New Hampshire, our furthest destination. I know why they call it the White Mountains: quartz, snow-capped peaks, whatever. These mountains aren't remotely white this time of year. False advertising!

We stayed at another private campsite, which was probably the busiest of our entire trip. Our time here happened to fall on Father's Day weekend, which explained the volume of people. Yay. I absolutely love being around people. (I don't).

A beautiful overlook.

Regardless of everything else, this was another lovely spot. We were tucked into a thicket of white pines, offering remarkable seclusion and forested beauty. The owners were very nice, even when they double-charged us for firewood. Oops! We also arrived during one of the rainiest parts of the year, so everything was soaked. That's OK, we're camping. We stayed at this site the longest—three nights—which I think was just enough time to hit all the highlights of the area. I have a few stories involving this leg of the trip that, in retrospect, would be funny now, but certainly weren't then. I'll save those for another time. I'll just say it involves me backpacking our youngest, 40+ pound child, up "an easy, family-friendly trail." HA!

One of the highlights was riding a 100+ year-old train up to the summit of Mount Washington. A memorable experience for sure. The train to the top.

The top. "We ain't found shit."

As you can see, it was a memorable experience for everyone, even though you couldn't see past your nose. My father-in-law was gracious enough to send me a picture of what the summit looks like on a clear day so I could see what we were missing. It looked impressive. This was on Father's Day, and the wife and kids had marked their bodies—specifically their hands—with temporary tattoos of my face. That way, when they inevitably got lost, the authorities would know who to return them to.

Without boring you with even more detail of our activities, we departed for our final destination: the Finger Lakes of New York. My wife and I have been to the Finger Lakes previously without kids. That excursion was much more fun than with kids, but we made the best of it.

This final campground, I will admit, was chosen because of its proximity to the highway. Did this make it a terrible campground? No, it was still quite nice, but not without its quirks. One interesting part was the abundance of seasonal campers. This means someone pays for an entire season of camping, and in return, they get to park their camper there in perpetuity. Not for us, but good on you if that's your thing. Every campground we stayed at had a permanent population, if you will, but not at the scale and volume of this one. The place was completely dead except for a few fellow transient campers and a handful of perma-campers.

So, you're probably thinking... "So what, Beard-Dad? I'm bored and don't care about your stupid vacation." Fair point, but this is where things got ridiculous.

Our first night, there was a gaggle of campers carousing about 200–300 yards away from us. They played loud music into the evening and were of a colorful nature. If you're thinking, "Colorful nature? Does he mean white trash?" you would be correct. OK, we can weather one bad set of neighbors, considering this is typically aberrant behavior among campers. We were relieved that they were packed up and gone by the time we returned to our site the next day from our adventures. Great, peace for us!

Nope.

The next evening, we were treated to a playlist of country-western and smokin' oldies blaring loudly out of a slow-rolling golf cart carrying a few geriatrics and their presumed grandkids. Really? Now, I don't typically judge a book by its cover, but their campsite had no fewer than 5 American flags split between traditional stars and stripes and the tackiest America 250 merch, not to mention the two flags sadly flapping behind a golf cart that would've been proudly owned by any rapper in the game. So that explains it. What's more American than being rude and annoying the shit out of your neighbors? Absolutely nothing. It sums us up perfectly these days.

The most insane part of this divergence was that they were located at a wholly different part of the campsite but made it a point to slow-roll by us and innocently wave at every pass, as if taunting me to say something. I didn't, mostly because my wife is already embarrassed by me enough as it is. But this entire, plodding process went on for literal hours before they probably got tired of their passive, drive-by tauntings and had to get their daily allowance of Ensure just to pass out to the sounds of a CPAP machine.

Despite the tranquil river flowing behind us, this was our least favorite campground. Seneca Lake was still looking good, though!

From there, we made the final six-and-a-half-hour trip home, downloaded all of our gear, and crashed out.

So, after regaling you with the mundane details of every campground, what have we learned?

• Paved roads are a myth in private campgrounds. My back has a problem with this one.
• Private campgrounds are like a box of chocolates: sometimes great, sometimes overpriced, and disappointing.
• Weird people enjoy camping. Yes, we're weird too.
• Most of these places are owned and operated by families that really do want you to have the best experience possible.
• Each campground has a vibe that can't be replicated. They may have similarities but are distinctively unique.

So, that's the long-winded overview of our vacation and the reason for my prolonged absence. I have a few more stories and commentaries to share, but like I said, I was gathering content and don't want to vomit it out all at once. Thanks for reading!

Dad out.

I'll be out for a few, collecting material for future posts.

Dad out.

Why Social Media is a Swamp (and Why I Started a Blog in 2026)

Social media is a swamp. I have had several people ask me why I started a blog in 2026. To me, the answer is obvious, but to others, it might look like a lapse into a bygone era. Engaging with modern social media is akin to intentionally dumping Miracle-Gro on mosquito eggs. Harmless at first, but over time, it breeds a relentless swarm of distractions that just leave you angry and itching.

I was an early adopter of social media. Yes, me. This grumpy, bearded man trapped in a 70-year-old woman's body could once be considered cool. I'm still trying to confirm my actual account creation on Facebook, but I have posts going back to 2005, which means I would be considered an "early adopter" of the platform. I don't know how old anyone is reading this, but I even had a short stint on MySpace, and before that, I used AOL Instant Messenger. Not only that, but I even have a memory of using bulletin board services (BBSs) during the early rapid expansion of the Internet. Yeah, I guess I am getting old.

Why am I telling you this? It's called establishing credibility. I have been using social media so long that I have become a de facto expert on the topic, and that is precisely why I can tell you how horrible it is.

In the early days, it started out innocent enough. It was a fun way to keep up with friends and share stupid Internet content. A far cry from what it is today. But, in watching its evolution, it's become something else entirely, and it's not great, not great at all.

I don't specifically know when that transition occurred. Maybe it was when I started to get old. You know the saying: "If the music is too loud, you're too old." Well, the social media machine is deafening, and I absolutely hate it. Do I continue to use it? Yep!

Why do I continue to use something that I absolutely detest? I don't really know anymore, and that's the worst part. I, and I'm sure many like me, continue to use the excuse, "It's the only way I can stay in touch with friends and family, of course." That's bullshit. For the most part, the people I want to keep up with, I do, and everyone else, meh.

Why Social Media is Trash

I could list a plethora of reasons why social media today sucks, but I'm going to give you just three simple reasons:

1. The User Base. In the early days of Facebook, it was strictly college students that could use it. You couldn't have access unless you had a .edu account. What was the reason for this? It was a simple way of gatekeeping to ensure that you kept the population of users that they desired. That's back when Facebook was fun and new, and you could take great joy in sending someone "a poke". It was an easy, indirect way to flirt with people and post all the dumb shit you were doing because, let's face it, college students are the stupidest group of people on earth, and Facebook provided an outlet for their (our) antics.

Since then, the platform has been opened up to all people, and that's part of the problem. When it was all college students, you had a predominantly like-minded body using it: stupid f*****g college students. But since everyone now has access, it has become a place for everyone to be shitty to one another. Just look at all the trash on Facebook these days. Damn it, even governmental organizations are posting things that belong in the movie Idiocracy. Everyone has a voice, but that doesn't mean they should always use it. Sometimes it's best just to STFU. Facebook should've stayed with the college students...because they're stupid like social media.

2. Monetization. Money ruins everything. Correction: the American way of capitalism ruins everything. Facebook gave rise to "The Influencer" and the world has been worse for it since then. So you may be asking, what about all the other platforms, "like TikTok!" or "Snapchat," or "Instagram", or whatever other ridiculous, mind-destroying platform there is out there. You may also think that, "Wow, I really love all of those platforms!" No, they propagate stupidity, and you are dumber for it. Stop using them immediately, and it doesn't really matter what the platform is because they all function the same way.

All of these platforms make money off advertising revenue and capturing your data to better sell you shit you don't need. So, the monetization of social media has vastly deteriorated the welfare of everyone that uses it.

3. Mental Health. Social media doesn't make you feel good about yourself or others. Frankly, it has an inverse effect. I don't know anyone who feels better after wasting time on social media. If you do, you're a sociopath. It has been proven repeatedly that the use of it increases rates of depression and potentially contributes to increased suicide among youth. The worst part is all of these companies know what they're doing to people, and they don't care. The only solution to reining them in is government intervention, and because of lobbying, they don't do anything about it. Our politicians just keep gargling the balls of all of these tech bros.

The Real Alternative

In getting back to my original point, I started a simple, unadulterated blog to avoid the pitfalls of the aforementioned blight of mankind. I know people are looking for real connection and something that is real. Not the filtered, monetized garbage that you get everywhere else.

The other reason I write is purely because I want to, and if people read it, great! If not, that's OK too because you still have that freedom to choose without the nagging thought that some AI may be forcing you into it. So, help me help you. Read something real. And maybe, just maybe, someday you can throw a little cash my way to support the effort. I mean, I hate the monetization of the internet, but a dad's still gotta buy pepperoni pizza and camper fuel. Kidding... mostly.

Dad out.

I Might Be Autistic.

That's a pretty bold statement from Beard-Dad! That "might" also might be doing a lot of heavy lifting because I probably am autistic.

When our youngest was born, she seemed relatively typical, if not overly subdued. Pretty nice, right? Nice to have a baby that rarely cries and isn't overly stimulated... except for the occasional instance where she would just start crying at random and would go on for prolonged periods of time without any sign of a trigger.

That's normal, right?

That should have been the first red flag, but as parents, how would you know anything is a little different without it being apparent?

The "Different" Track

By the time she was one, we came to the difficult realization that she was exceptionally delayed. Not crawling, not babbling, not responding to her name... she just wasn't doing much of anything. So, we contacted a local county organization that helps kids with delays get on the right track... or a different track. (I could probably make a whole other post about what "right" actually is or isn't).

Anyway, early in this process, my wife and I came to the conclusion that we should probably have her evaluated. What we really thought was: she needs to be evaluated for autism. If your memory is better than mine—which I'm betting it is—remember my wife is a pediatric occupational therapist. She knows.

So, being the good parents that we are, we got an appointment with our local children's hospital neurology department. The wait times for the autism clinic were over a year to be seen (read my take on healthcare in The Burden of Care). These insanely long wait times prompted us to get into neurology because we had potential concerns for other neurological deficits. I believe the wait time for that clinic was a "short" 6 months. Oh boy!

Without further boring you with the mundane details, she was subsequently diagnosed with autism and global developmental delay, which often go hand in hand.

The Light-Bulb Moment

You might be wondering why I'm going into the long, drawn-out backstory about my daughter and her diagnosis. It's because, being the overly curious person that I am, I began to notice a pattern in all the related educational materials about autism.

Most of what I was reading painted a picture of my own life and the things that I've experienced. Imagine, if you will, me sitting at my computer, digesting all of this information, and a light-bulb instantly pops over my head! (Or an exclamation point for all of you weird nerds out there).

"Ah ha!" I thought, "I might be autistic." And, as my wife can attest to, I am almost always right. If you're reading this, honey, I love you, and you're always right.

So with my newfound revelation, I embarked on a journey of self-discovery. Just kidding, I opened up Dr. Google and went to work. There are many great resources for individuals looking for answers in their own lives. Specifically, Embrace Autism has amazing screening tools that you can use (for free) to see if you have the potential of being on the spectrum.

Disclaimer: No, they are not paying me for this bump, and I have no affiliation... but I'm open to it! (wink, wink) Ironically, my wife sent this site to me somewhat as a gaffe because she had received it through work channels. Well, the joke's on you, babe; I took those tests and scored so well that I would put Trump's cognitive scores to shame.

Putting It to the Test

In reality, test after test strongly suggested that I'm probably autistic. Recently, I again took three surveys: the AQ, RAADS-R, and the CAT-Q. I'll share the most recent results with you now.

1. The AQ (Autism Spectrum Quotient) According to Embrace Autism, this is "A general overview of autistic traits across communication, social interaction, attention, and thinking style." Neat. I thought I blew this out of the water. I took it intending to prove how non-autistic I am. Wrong. You would think higher scores are good, right? I learned as early as kindergarten to always do my best and get a high score. Shoot, games are also based on the premise of getting high scores. Also, wrong.

Huh.

Must be an anomaly. Let's take another one.

2. The RAADS-R Next on the autism train of self-discovery, I took the Ritvo Autism Asperger Diagnostic Scale Revised. That one is not fun to type out. Once again, Embrace Autism explains, "A detailed look at autistic patterns across your life. This test was developed to identify high-masking autistics as well." Surely, you don't hide your perceived autism, Beard-Dad, you're so "normal." Well, I might be autistic, and don't call me Shirley. Double "huh." Let's see what my score says.

Well, shit. Could just be a coincidence, right?

Wrong again!

3. The CAT-Q The third test I took today was the Camouflaging Autistic Traits Questionnaire. What does Embrace Autism say about this one? "Explore how you adapt or mask/camouflage autistic traits in daily social situations." Pfffft. Get outta here, I'm not "masking" anything. Let's see the score.

Oh. Maybe this one is inverse, and higher means lower?

...Well, shit. There ya have it.

Connecting the Dots

I took all of these tests and more previously and just so happened to be in therapy at the time. What providence! Remember, I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, had a major life change with retirement, and shortly after that, had a profoundly autistic child. So you could say it was good for me to talk to someone.

I approached my therapist about it, and she also felt like this revelation wasn't so unfounded, although it was beyond her scope of practice to officially diagnose autism.

You may be curious if I've sought out a diagnosis. I haven't because, as stated previously, I'm cheap and this is one of those things insurance doesn't cover. Maybe someday...

I haven't taken this many tests since college, so that's all the personal insight I'm giving you today, but I think we have a major takeaway: I might be a little neuro spicy! This explains a lot in my life. This also confirms a hunch that I've had for some time: the Army is autistic. (I'll elaborate more in a future post).

More importantly, all of this gives me a little bit better perspective of my daughter and what she may be experiencing, especially because she can't voice it. It's important to remember that we're all different in different ways, and we all bring gifts to the table no matter how apparent or hidden they may be. We just have to look.

Dad Out.

It's come to my attention that a few of my posts have disappeared! My sincerest apologies. Unfortunately, this is part of the experience with a single-point developer, writer, and manager of an unpopular blog page. I'm still living in the early 2000s, baby! Please peruse the restored and NEW posts below, as I had recently transitioned to a new framework and something was "lost in the sauce." Again, my apologies, and enjoy the unfortunate machinations of my life.

Dad out.

Beard-Dad: What Do You Do Every Day?

Seriously, without work, what do you do? My wife can definitely tell you, as she is relentless in her quest to fill every minute of time to the max. Which leads me to my question for other people: what do you do all day?

Every time this question comes up, I'm often reminded of the line from Office Space, "What would you say you do here?" I love "The Bobs." Seriously though, this is a true curiosity of mine. This is also a question I continuously ask myself as it pertains to my own situation.

Like I've said before, I am an Army Veteran. While in the service, I was constantly busy; workdays would often span out into all seven days of the week. When I had just a moment's free time, I wouldn't want to fill it with chores or additional work. I wanted to relax. Reasonable, right? Wrong. According to my wife, relaxation is a myth.

Now, I could get away with the proverbial lazy day now and again before marriage, but after, my days of quiet relaxation were quickly gone. Since kids entered the mix, relaxation really has become a mythic endeavor. This sounds like a dig on marriage, my kids, and my wife. It's not, and I'll tell you why. Being the way she is makes me a better person; I get more done, and I like to think I do the same for her.

I believe there are several different types of people in the world when it comes to rest, relaxation, and filling time—and all of them can complement each other. Let's explore.

The Lazy POS (LPOS) This one might be the most obvious. Some people we know are just lazy pieces of shit. There's no working around it. Now, I think there is some value in learning what makes someone a Lazy POS. Do they have a mental or chronic disease? Are they allergic to work and activities? I hear work allergies become really strong in the summer. But we've all come across someone in our work or social lives that's just plain lazy. In the work environment, these people are horrid to work with because they always take the path of least resistance, even if it's a path to nowhere.

In social circles, this individual may be a little harder to spot, but often you can tell (at least in dad-world) by the state of their lawn. Yes, dads love a well-manicured lawn. Our partners might believe we take lawn care so seriously because we love it. Not true. We love lawn care because of the solitude. What I've learned over time is that most kids fit into the "Lazy POS" category. Those little turds will find every excuse not to do something, even when it's to their benefit. There aren't a whole lot of kids that want to do lawn work, hence the solitude.

There are a few exceptions to the lawn rule: the elderly, the indigent, and the overly busy individual. I could go on about those subcategories, but I think you get the point. These individuals can be incredibly hard to identify as they have become masters at doing nothing but making it look like they do. I'm not going to name names, but if you're reading this, you know who you are.

The Party Animal (PA) The Party Animal is someone who loves to be around other people, and when they aren't at work (around other people), they fill their free time with... other people. I understand this one the least, as I absolutely do not like being around people. I already know what you're thinking: "Oh, wow, Beard-Dad is a curmudgeonly old curmudgeon."

False. I am not. What I am is probably an extreme introvert. It's not that I dislike people. Quite the contrary, I like most people I meet. The only issue here is that being around people saps all of my energy, quickly. Think of me as a car battery in -30 degree weather. I still want to work, but I'll fade fast.

Despite my inappropriate desire to be by myself, I still recognize that other people don't like to be hermits. So, what are the hallmarks of the Party Animal? First, it is the complete inability to be alone. These folks absolutely can't function by themselves. I know that's an exaggeration, but their mental and physical well-being quickly deteriorates if they aren't around at least one other person. Does this mean that every Party Animal likes to party? Nope, but they absolutely thrive in that environment and actually get energy from being around others. It's insanity.

The second hallmark of the Party Animal is that, much like the Busy Body, they always have to be doing something—but with one major difference. The Party Animal only engages in activities that involve being around other people. If you need a perfect example, think of escape rooms. Talk about a nightmare for me: being locked in a room with others whom you may or may not know or like. Torture. But not for the Party Animal! Again, I think most kids fall into this category because they are always up my ass.

The Busy Body (BB) These people are weird, but I've been surrounded by them for most of my life, so I have some insight. Both my wife and brother fall into this category in the truest sense. These individuals thrive on to-do lists and constantly need something to do, even when it isn't fun.

I don't know why, but in my conversations with Busy Bodies, they have alluded that being this way brings no satisfaction. It's more of a compulsion, and when they complete a task, they have a very short-lived feeling of happiness, but only in the fact that they finished something. For them, it is more about the destination instead of the journey. They are never satisfied.

Other traits of the Busy Body include a lack of hobbies. They don't have hobbies because they "don't have time for hobbies." Which is BS, because their hobby is being busy. These people tend to be incredibly successful in their chosen endeavors because they doggedly pursue them, often to their own detriment. But hey, at least they get some shit done.

I do love this category, probably because I'm not one and it creates a little jealousy. Kids are also Busy Bodies, because they are always giving me stuff to do. You might be asking why. It's because their lack of ability makes me do their desired tasks for them.

"Daddy, can you open this for me?" "Daddy, can you play with me?" "Daddy..."

The list goes on forever.

The No Work All Play (NWAP) These are some unique individuals. Contrary to the Busy Body, these folks only want to engage in leisure activities, with or without people, which separates them from Party Animals. Gamers—which I am—definitely fall into this category. These folks just want to do fun things or things that interest them. It doesn't always involve screens, but can also translate to outdoor activities or pseudo-academic pursuits.

Think of professional rock climbers, cyclists, or willful participants in any sport; they will typically fall into the NWAP category. Does this mean that they are also Lazy POSs? No, because these individuals work exceptionally hard at playing. Unlike Lazy POSs, their pursuits are met with the same energy as the Busy Body completing tasks. There is a high probability that these individuals fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. They are usually quite passionate about their interests and won't waste an opportunity to tell you about them in great detail, regardless of your feigned interest or lack thereof. I am definitely a NWAP. Infer what you will, because I don't really care what you think.

Kids are also NWAPs, as their pursuits tend to lean toward what they consider fun. Unfortunately, things that they most often consider fun, I don't.

Borings (Bs) This is somewhat of an unfair title, but unfortunately, it is very accurate. The Boring is simply that: boring. This is the personality type that I interact with the least, but not intentionally. I find that this is the rarest of all categories. Is everyone boring to someone else? Absolutely, because not everyone shares the same interests. But the Boring just doesn't do much or have any interests. These individuals just kind of exist.

One of the biggest identifiers of a Boring is that they don't have anything to talk about, ever, because they don't engage in anything. Oftentimes they are toted along to events by Party Animals simply because of their proximity or out of pity.

The really odd thing about the Boring is that they don't care either way. Think of this person as indifferent to everything. It's not that they're Lazy POSs, because they usually find an occupation and do well enough, but their occupations tend to be pretty mundane and then they don't pursue much outside of it. My description of the Boring might be a little harsh, but in my interactions with them, they fully comprehend and identify as being... boring. It's just totally foreign to me.

I think kids are super boring, but I don't believe they predominantly fall into this category. They are always doing things that kids definitely don't think are boring by any means.

"But Beard-Dad, you've incorporated kids into every category, why not this one?!"

Why? Because I'm fair and objective, unlike Fox News; get off my case!

The Wrap-Up This was a fun excursion into the intricacies of differing personalities! Much like a Myers-Briggs test, I even broke these down into acronyms so you can code people based on their personality types! I'm an LPOSNWAP. What's yours?

As always, I know that I say a lot of this in jest, but I have a few points.

I think it's important to try and understand the ones you love. What are their motivations? Why do they do the things they do, even when it drives you crazy? I think we often struggle to get along because we are so absorbed with ourselves that we fail to understand the very real and important traits of others. Try to discover who they really are.

Kids are all of these things because they haven't been fully developed into their ultimate persona yet. Tabula rasa, if you will (blank slate). It's a really cool thing to see different personality traits emerge, but I think it's even cooler that these little monsters are so open to all of the wonders of the world without self-imposed limits yet.

I'm done melting your brains for the day, so I'll leave you with this: Just because we're all different doesn't mean we don't have to be kind to one another. In the future, before jumping to conclusions, try and think about the personality type you're dealing with and the struggles they may be experiencing because of it.

Dad out.

Take the BeardDad Personality Test here

I’m sorry for my absence. We were away undertaking one of America's finest family traditions: the family camping trip. We bought a 24-foot travel trailer about three years ago and have made it a point to actually use it. We strictly go "glamping" because I'm a diva and I need that 30-amp service to run my AC! Unfortunately, we also have to take our kids, which I suppose is the entire point of a "family camping trip." I've camped both with and without children, and I have to say the latter is a much better experience, but we persevere regardless.

Based on our experience camping with children—one of whom has a rather significant disability—I feel like it's my duty to offer some friendly advice for anyone considering such an endeavor.

Tip 1: Remember your chargers. Reaching many of our favorite campsites requires towing the camper, which slows down travel significantly. Thus, you need a constant stream of entertainment to occupy those active little minds. If you don't, they quickly turn feral, and your car will soon devolve into a very bad screamo concert. And unless it’s Wage War or Lorna Shore, that’s a concert you didn't want to attend—nor pay for, because let's face it, just having kids around costs money. Therefore, it is IMPERATIVE that you remember to bring chargers for all the devices that keep those wannabe vocalists busy for the duration of the trip.

How do I know this? We forgot to bring the charger for literally three iPads that we use in beautiful harmony to bring us the only peace we'll have on our vacation. It's a quiet bliss only penetrated by the soft dueling of different kids' shows being played at the exact same time. You know what I don't hear during this time? Whining, complaining, "How much longer?" and "Can we have a snack?" The answer will always be "no!" to all of those things, including requests for time, as you can clearly see it on the dashboard screen. Open your flipping eyes!

We started with only one iPad that had an 80% charge, so I eventually caved and bought an overpriced charging cable from a gas station. Not my finest moment, but you have to do what you can to survive. In the future, just remember your chargers.

Tip 2: Wear your kids out. Our youngest child can be kind of a pain in the ass. She's non-verbal autistic with a global developmental delay. What does that mean to you? Absolutely nothing, because she isn't yours. But for us, it means lots of experimental parenting. I say "experimental" because typical styles of parenting just don't work on this kid. For example, when we tell our oldest daughter it's time for bed, you know what she does? She goes the f*** to sleep. You know what our youngest does? She throws a rave in the camper while we are just trying to get some much-needed downtime around a cozy fire.

It's not that she isn't tired, oh no. It's that she's so excited about camping that she physically can't sleep. Yelling doesn't work, gentle pats on the butt don't work, and laying down with her doesn't work. Nothing works except waiting her out... or does it?

No, it doesn't. You know what we made these kids do the next day after a night of waking up to "ga ga ga, da, eyes, wook!"? We took a two-mile hike through some hilly woods, followed by more walking, and an afternoon in the pool. It all sounds fun, right? Yes, but fun isn't the only goal here. The primary objective is to exhaust those tiny parasites so they go to sleep. And it worked; that night and every subsequent night, they went right down. Other acceptable forms of "wearing your kids out" include forced ruck marches, running laps until you get tired (your kids are the ones running the laps), and burpees until, again, you get tired. All proven methods.

Tip 3: Bring reinforcements. My in-laws also enjoy camping and, much to our surprise and joy, they also like our kids (their grandkids). I'm still trying to figure out why. Anyway, the one trip where we all went camping together was amazing. When you inevitably get tired of your kids—which typically happens in the first five minutes—you just send them to grandma and grandpa's camper! Often, when we go to retrieve our human luggage, they're having a grand ol' time without Mom and Dad. It makes me think they conspire to make us miserable on purpose, as we always get glowing reports about their behavior from the grandparents. Hmm.

I know it sounds like a no-brainer, but bring someone to watch your kids while you do absolutely nothing, read a book, or even take a nap. The only caveat here is that you want to bring someone who actually likes your kids; otherwise, you're just adding another whining voice to the cacophony of misery.

Tip 4: Give them ice cream daily. I know what you're thinking: "Ice cream every day? That's horrible, we should call CPS on Beard-Dad!" First off, no. Second, hear me out. Who is ever sad when eating ice cream? The answer is no one (at least, no one you ever want to be around). Even the mere thought of getting ice cream puts kids into a trance-like euphoria where they'll pretty much do whatever you tell them.

"Go clean up or we can't get ice cream." "OK, Daddy!"

It works absolute wonders, and the best part is, you get to have ice cream too. Everyone wins. If you're lactose intolerant, your toilet won't, but it's worth it.

Those are all the tips I'm willing to share for free. Any more and I'm going to have to start a premium tier to give you the real tricks of the trade. Kidding... for now.

I know I say a lot of silly things and gripe a lot about the frustrations that come with child-rearing. But, in the end, it's all incredibly worth it to witness firsthand the core memories the girls are creating with us. There is a special kind of magic that comes with family trips, regardless of the headaches. So, my last tip is simple: cherish these moments and memories, for they are fleeting and can only be captured once in a lifetime.

Dad out.

I'm currently sitting in a doctor's office. This isn't a new occurrence. In fact, if waiting rooms offered loyalty points like a credit card, I’d be in the titanium high-roller tier. This is often the theme with chronic illness: time and burden.

It's a burden for me; it's a burden for my loved ones, as it often takes me away from them and the many happenings in their lives. It's a burden for the caregivers and the system as a whole because of the financial cost and the fact that our healthcare system is extremely overwhelmed. Not only that, but it is all just... a burden.

We are very fortunate in the sense that we have insanely good healthcare. Like, really good. If we had to pay for my annual care out of pocket, it would be close to half a million dollars, and that's just for regular treatments and checkups. But we only have to pay a maximum of $3,000 annually. Woohoo!

I’ve had over 21 personal doctor visits in the past year alone. That doesn’t include the ER or urgent care runs. That’s nearly two a month. Two a month might not sound terrible, but keep that schedule for eight years continuously and tell me how it feels.

You might be thinking that I'm completely full of it, and you know, that's a fair assumption. "Oh, so just because you see a lot of doctors, you're an expert?" Yes. Damn right!

It is exhausting for all the reasons I listed above, AND I'm still sick! Bobby Brokearm gets to go to the doctor for an acute injury, get some physical therapy, and actually get better. That doesn't happen for me. I don't get better, and I am excellent at following orders. All of this is just to stymie a rapid descent into disability.

So, yeah, I'm an expert. Said in Keanu Reeves' best John Wick voice. Let me tell you why.

I am a casual observer of all the systemic problems in health care. I often hear people say, "I'm glad we don't have socialized healthcare! America is the best!" First off, pull your head out of your ass and do a little research and traveling. Our healthcare is NOT the best. Sure, we attract plenty of top doctors because of capitalism. Most people like to be compensated well, and if the opportunity is there, they will take it. Does that mean that everyone gets to see those doctors? Nope! Be prepared for months-long wait times all while you gradually sink into medical despair. This point is exceptionally ironic because "wait times" is one of the largest reasons people are against socialized medicine.

Now, I'm not saying that other doctors are bad. Quite the contrary, in my vast experience, most doctors I've dealt with have been excellent. Most. BUT, you'll still experience insanely long scheduling times to see them too. Why? Because, as I've stated before, the healthcare system is overburdened. Is this the fault of the doctors? Absolutely not. It's the fault of the capitalist system that's invaded healthcare.

"OMG, Beard-Dad, are you a commie bastard?!" First off, kindly direct your head to the nearest garbage disposal. Second, no. I just don't think profiteering belongs anywhere near healthcare. It muddies the waters and provides poor patient experience and high physician burnout.

What is one of the first questions someone is asked when seeing the doctor? "Do you have insurance, and what insurance do you have?" Why TF does it matter? (I'm well aware they need to know who to bill... besides me.) Help me without my quality of care being affected by the insurance I carry. Many people will tell me that it doesn't matter. Those people are called liars, as I've witnessed this repeatedly firsthand. The extent of my care is based specifically on what my insurance "covers". Which, lucky for me, is just about everything!

Which leads me to the crux of this specific observation. I'm on socialized healthcare. It's true! The government has set prices on my behalf, negotiated drug costs to almost nothing for me, and carries the brunt of the financial burden.

The VA is the truest version of socialized medicine in the country, and ya know what? I get the same level of care there that I do in the civilian systems.

One of the weirdest reasons I'm an expert on healthcare is that I usually know more about my disease than many of the doctors I see. I get it; unless you're a neurologist or someone specializing in MS, you probably aren't going to be too knowledgeable on it. Here's the problem with that. Oftentimes, my MS overlaps with other ailments that are written off by doctors under the umbrella of having MS.

• "Numbness and tingling? Probably the MS."
• "Gastrointestinal issues? MS."
• "Your body hurts? Just part of the MS."

It drives me crazy when I see a specialist and this is their default conclusion without even giving me a proper exam. I will concede that most of the time they will do appropriate testing, but their initial inclination is always, "Oh yeah bro, MS. Duh."

Well. That's about it. I'm going to continue waiting to see this doctor as I have been waiting for the last two hours. And I'm not counting the four months it took to get this appointment. Why? Because I'll continue to take care of myself the best way I can, even when the system is as broken as my body. I also want to offer a sincere thank you to all the doctors, nurses, and professionals that have helped me and continue to do so because they're good people. Thank you for consistent work in trying to make me feel better. Your efforts are noticed and appreciated. Just stop telling me, "It's the MS."

Dad out.

I Planted Trees Recently.

Well, okay—I paid someone to plant some trees recently.

We live in the suburbs in a beautiful neighborhood where you can see your neighbors every time you look out the window. We like our neighbors very much, but I don't necessarily want to watch the live-action broadcast of their lives playing out in our backyard. We also have some incredible living space back there in the form of a partially covered patio we had installed last year. It has a built-in firepit that is aesthetically appealing and a real joy to use. The only problem? Zero privacy. Two houses sit right on the opposite side of our fenceline.

So, to combat living in a fishbowl, we had a row of emerald green arborvitae planted along the back fence.

Here's the catch: They're three feet tall.

Those trees "ain't blockin' shit" --yet, and probably won't for a few years. Am I so far gone into the early throes of dementia that I had no idea these trees were so small? No. I did this because I'm cheap.

To give you some backstory, my family loves trees. Like, really loves them. I grew up on an intentionally and exceptionally wooded 3-acre plot of land. I remember my dad being outside all the time "planting trees"—though in reality, I think he just liked the peace of being outside. Over the course of his tenure there, he probably planted hundreds of trees. That is not an exaggeration.

This obsession with greenery started with my grandmother, who originally cultivated the land from a barren brick factory (true story) into the lush landscape it is today. Out of the three generations that have lived there, it was my grandmother and father responsible for its majesty. Shoot, we had so many varieties of trees on our property—over fifty—that middle school classes would take field trips to our house just to collect leaves for school projects. You could definitely say we had a little bit of "privacy" there. If by privacy, you mean a literal Fortress of Solitude.

BEHOLD!

Now that you have the backstory, you can understand my deep-seated desire for a secluded backyard. So, what's the point of this musing? I don't know that I have a specific point, except that much like a glass ketchup bottle, good things come to those who wait.

I have found that planting something and watching it grow is a slow, boring, and miraculous experience. Trees usually don't grow perfectly. Sometimes they get sick, and sometimes they need a little pruning.

I'll lean fully into the dad cliché here: planting trees is a lot like raising my two girls. It takes time, patience, water, food, and a solid foundation to grow them into beautifully cultivated adults who, I hope, flourish because of the effort we put into them.

So the next time someone asks me why I only planted three-foot trees in the backyard, my answer will be simple: "Because I like watching things grow."

Dad out... to water some trees.

If you looked blindly at my medical chart, you'd picture a 70-year-old woman. Actually, I’m a 44-year-old cisgender dude, but at this point in my life, my immune system and my skeleton are fully ignoring my genetics. As I've stated before, I have plenty of medical issues. I'm not shy nor ashamed of that; it is what it is. One thing I was not prepared for in my rapid spiral into complete disability was the ever-increasing list of predominantly female-related illnesses that I am afflicted with. Let me tell you!

I have multiple sclerosis (MS). According to WebMD, the ratio of women diagnosed with MS vs. men is 4 to 1. I think it would be safe to say that MS is a predominantly female-oriented disease. I was first diagnosed back in 2018, and this was the ultimate reason for my departure from the Army. MS is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects everyone differently and is underpinned by common symptoms and disabilities. For me, I have a lot of the mild to moderate hallmarks of the disease, such as debilitating fatigue, numbness and tingling, visual problems, pain, etc.

I actually have a pretty funny story about how I was diagnosed, so if we ever cross paths, feel free to ask. It involves a groundhog and a bike on a rainy day. MS sucks. It really does, but I and millions of other ladies out there are making the best of it.

I have fibromyalgia. Another female-dominated disease. According to the NIH, "It is most prevalent among middle-aged women, encompassing 75%-90% of those diagnosed." Wow, that's an even higher prevalence than MS! I guess my parents really should've named me Hailey despite my apparent birth as a male.

Fibromyalgia is basically just a pain disorder. I have pain all the time. No big deal, I'm used to pain, which makes this disease manageable, if not psychologically secondary to MS. It is often difficult to decipher what is causing what sensation at any given time, so I don't give this one much thought even though it's part of my medical history. I know some folks who get absolutely wrecked by this one, and there is no judgment here. They just so happen to all be women. Girl power!

I have Raynaud's disease. This one isn't as large of a gap, but damn it, I'm going to use all the ammo I have to make my case. Again, according to the NIH, "Community-based surveys estimate Raynaud's may be present in 5-20% of women and in 4-14% of men." Wow, I suppose I should get my estrogen checked! Actually, I have, and I have normal levels... for a man, hmm.

Raynaud's has to be the most annoying of all of my afflictions. It's a vascular disease that also makes the furthest reaches of your body turn magical colors, lose all blood, and then throb for hours on end. In my case, I also develop ulcers on my fingertips in the winter. Neat! Raynaud's can eat a bag of dicks. In case you can't tell, I really hate this one, as I've been presented with no treatment options for it.

Finally, this leads me to the real reason for this musing. Today, I was diagnosed with osteoporosis. WTF. I'm a 44-year-old dude, or at least I thought I was. The NIH is banging out some hits! They state that "osteoporosis is four times more common in women than in men..." putting it on par with MS in diagnosis prevalence. I'm still learning about this one, but the current options offered to me are a daily self-injection of magical bone grow for 2 years, followed up by a maintenance med that I would take in perpetuity.

This particular affliction has been a specific pain in my ass for years. I break a lot of bones. Apparently more than the average Joe, as I have logged 18 fractures over my lifetime. Apparently, this is what some in the medical community call a problem.

The real red flag is when I broke my foot in two places last year by walking and subsequently fractured both knees in November because I went for a light jog... twice. So, bing bang boop, I got a DEXA scan at the Women's Health clinic (no bullshit, that's where they sent me), and several months later arrived here today with osteoporosis at the age of 44.

So, because of the totality of the circumstances, I believe that I am indeed a 70-year-old woman, at least by medical history. I would almost guarantee that any doctor looking at my history without specifically knowing my sex would be like, "Wow, this lady has many problems!" The frustrating part about all of this is I actually follow medical advice! I exercise regularly; I don't have a stupid diet like a vast majority of Americans; I try not to drink too much; I follow all the prescription protocols given to me, and I don't smoke! What gives! I'll tell you what gives: absolutely nothing. My genetics just have a dark sense of humor. Can I identify as a 70-year-old woman?

Chronic disease has become a big part of my story. What I've experienced throughout the medical community as a professional patient is that we are not all treated the same based on the diagnosis. I have often found that most of the aforementioned maladies, when researched, are predominantly based around women with the disease and not men. That's fair considering the disproportionate amount of women diagnosed with these things, but it doesn't do a lick of good for individuals (men) like me. For example, most resources for MS are geared specifically to women and the age-related problems of being a woman.

I guess what I'm ultimately trying to say is that gender discrimination or bias can affect even a cis white male like myself. (I hope I said that correctly.) I won't say it's eye-opening because if you aren't a complete piece of crap, you can recognize that other people go through this all the time based on different factors, but it is humbling to experience it yourself even when it isn't overt or intentional. I have to go pee in a jug for 24 hours and somehow keep it refrigerated without making my family vomit when they open the fridge.

Dad out.

Here's some slop for ya! I fed this post into an AI and had it generate this image. Thanks, Google, you're hilarious.

OH COME ON!

It's bad enough that I'm tormented inside the house. Now this cretin is stalking me in my own yard! I promise you, I am not staging this thing for effect. It just magically appears where I least expect it and continues to ensure that I'll keep going back to my cardiologist (yes, I have one of those too). I am warning all parents not to buy this terrorist!

"People of all ages love its presence and charm, whether it's in the living room, playroom, or store front."

False advertising. I do not love it and I would categorize myself as a person of all ages.

I snuck up on this asshole to get this shot. He was too engrossed in freaking out the neighbors to notice.

Dad out...to get an EKG.

Find the original terrorist sighting here.

School's out now, so my body has once again become corporeal! Some of you may have to look that word up... You are probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about. "Beard-dad, you're a human being with a solid body, blood and cholesterol coursing through your veins." When it comes to child rearing, school, pretty much anything involving children, dads are not considered relevant in any serious conversations, decisions, etc. I can already hear the slow turn of eyes rolling, creaking in their sockets, but please hear me out.

I’m a stay-at-home dad or SAHD—which, conveniently, is pronounced 'sad,' fitting for a guy whose school presence is basically a haunting. I'm not just some dude ranting on a daily basis, even though that would be a fair assumption. So, I have some street cred when it comes to all of the aforementioned issues. In my current role, I am the primary contact, caregiver, comforter, diaper changer, and adult face for my children. Most people I've come across in my 7 years of doing this have been very kind and supportive. BUT, when it comes to the school side of things, which happens to be dominated by women, I am nothing more than a warm body and, more often than not, a ghost.

"What do you mean, a ghost!?! Is this the Sixth Sense?" No, it's not and I'm not actually a ghost. Since we've started our journey through the school system, we have had the pleasure of attending multiple parent/teacher conferences. I believe that my wife and I have attended every single one that's come up except for maybe one. Conferences or meetings with teachers and staff have become almost a comedic enterprise for me over the years because oftentimes I am entirely ignored during the discussions.

When we first started, I would often say to my wife that "Teacher X didn't look at me the entire meeting" and would disregard my questions or answer them to my wife. At first, she didn't believe me or would write it off as a non-issue because, as I've stated before, she works in schools and has never done nor witnessed such a thing.

For a while I thought that maybe I was overreacting, but these occurrences just kept happening over and over again. Since I made my wife aware of the perceived issue, she has become more perceptive of the body language and overall responses from school staff and is now on team Beard Dad.

You might wonder what the precipitating moment was for her epiphany. I remember distinctly we were sitting in a conference for my oldest. I asked a question directly to the teacher and in response, she looked directly at my wife and full-on answered to her as if I weren't even there. The teacher even looked her directly in the eyes while she was speaking. To be fair, I did notice everyone in the room begin to shiver and become visibly disturbed while I was talking. Weird. The entire exchange was so outlandish that I began to find great comedy thereon out. Hence, I knew then that I very well may be a ghost but only inside of school buildings.

Now, am I exaggerating a little bit? No, I am not. The absolute disavowal of my existence is quite prevalent, BUT I'm not even mad or bitter about it. Honestly, I'm kind of enthralled with the entire thing. Since I’ve accepted my afterlife as a phantom, I’ve been observing the patterns of the living. Here are my working theories on why this haunting happens.

Theory 1: Since education is a predominantly female-dominated profession (except for high school), female teachers inadvertently feel more comfortable talking to other women. In reality, it probably has nothing to do with me or my gender. It's just a natural social tendency. Totally understandable! I wouldn't want to talk to me either!

Theory 2: Men have been so absent in the child-rearing experience over time that it's jarring when a dad is so heavily involved. I am not ignorant to this. Men historically have not been primary caregivers of children. Hell, oftentimes you will see dad's portrayed as clueless, bumbling idiots that can't even put a diaper on the right way.

This perception is actually relevant because that's how most dads were when I was growing up. They went to work, they came home, ate, slept, and repeated the cycle. It would be a special occasion to see dad's participating in the regular happenings of family life, and the mere occurrence of a dad "taking care of the kids" would warrant gushing praise from any woman in the vicinity. "Oh look at the dad, watching his kids, what a good dad!" (Read this in a Canadian accent; it's more fun.)

You don't see women being praised for the exact same thing, that many do all f***ing day?! Do ya?! I too have often been given such warm praises for simply doing what I'm supposed to do, which is taking care of the darn kids! Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the compliments and feeling seen, but the standards are completely different between men and women.

Working Theories:

-I'm just so good-looking and my beard is so magnificent, it renders every teacher that sees it awe-struck. (Probably not true... probably)

-I am a ghost. It is completely plausible that I die whenever I enter a school and that's why no one can see me. The miracle in all of this is that I am resurrected every time I leave. The church may want to study me. (This is probably the least likely scenario)

So what should you take away from all of this? Well, we are all subject to social constructs, even when they can negatively impact you. People adhering to said social constructs usually aren't intentionally being malicious or rude. It's subconscious. Lastly, people are definitely biased against ghosts. To anyone reading this, remember that all dads aren't bumbling idiots, just most of us, and regardless of what you've experienced in the past, gender roles can change. Thanks for reading, and I have to go counsel a sad kid on a park bench now. Dad out.

I don't like to talk politics anymore. It's just not productive to do so in the United States right now. This is sad for me because I actually like politics and even carry a degree in political science. I wouldn't qualify myself as an expert on domestic politics, but I will say that I know more than most people on the topic and I am extremely well-versed in foreign policy.

I also avoid it because the saying is true: "Opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one and they all stink." With that being said, the current administration is an abomination.

The reasons why our current administration sucks ass are infinite, but the true defining moment is this:

Source

WTF. So I'm guessing there are currently two types of people looking at this photo right now. First, the sane kind: if you look at this and automatically feel revulsion, disgust, and anger, those are the correct emotions to have. Second, if you see this and spontaneously vomit out a "Hell yeah, brother!" and subsequently get excited, you should probably stop voting immediately and maybe consider sterilization. This entire display, event, whatever, is abhorrent.

Or... am I just being a big wussy?

I wasn't sure how to answer my last question, so, like a good millennial, I turned to the Internet, which means I asked Google's very own Gemini. I tasked it to: “Convince me that a UFC fight on the White House lawn is a good thing.”

The AI spat out a beautifully orchestrated, fiercely institutional defense. It argued that hosting "UFC Freedom 250" on the South Lawn this June would redefine the "People's House" by embracing working-class culture, showcase the ultimate meritocracy, act as a global soft-power play of national energy, and break Washington's stiff traditionalism.

OK, Google. I hear you, but I don't think I can let this one slide. Let's address those points individually.

Redefining the "People's House"

I would definitely agree that D.C. has historically had a stick up its ass and really doesn't represent its mass constituency. Although, a fight on the lawn? I would argue that this is more akin to redneck politics and doesn't redefine shit. It just shows that America is bereft of class and caters to a male demographic in the 18–49 category. Most of whom probably fantasize about being in that ring but realistically would get their asses handed to them by a stuffed animal. I should know, I'm surrounded by stuffies and they are dangerous. (Please refer to my previous post about the terrorist giraffe for context.)

Also, according to WifiTalents.com, only 1.7% of U.S. adults reported watching UFC per 2022 survey data. Sure, I'll play devil's advocate for a second—more recent survey data from S&P Global Market Intelligence puts the number closer to 9% of U.S. online adults, putting it roughly on par with golf or tennis. But even using that more generous number, 9% doesn't exactly scream "People's House" to me. I would assume since MAGA has grown like a malignant cancer, so has UFC viewership, but I can't imagine that in a few short years it has eclipsed the halfway point of representing all Americans. This is a sham argument at best.

The Ultimate Meritocracy

OK, sure, meritocracy. A fine idea if this wasn't completely hypocritical. The current administration is full of nepo-babies, sycophants, and grifters. Many of whom come from great privilege, including the man at the top. To espouse the concept of meritocracy while exercising the exact opposite is insulting. If you want to base this off of the idea and not its execution, sure, but I'm not seeing it realistically portrayed at all.

A Global Power Play

This one is laughable. I would argue that this will actually diminish America's soft power abroad. We've cut massive amounts of foreign aid, kidnapped the leaders of foreign countries, started an illegitimate war (try and fight me on that one), and allowed the murder and incarceration of both foreigners and citizens domestically in the supposedly freest country in the world—and you're going to argue that a highly moderated cage fight is going to project power abroad? ¡HA! Do you want to know what really conveys true soft power and authority? Practiced morality, working productively with your allies, and—I don't know—maybe adhering to your own laws? Holy shit, this one is stupid.

Breaking Institutional Stridency

This may be the only point that I mildly agree with. Washington D. C. is exceptionally insular. The soft check on this is looking at real estate prices. Your average, tax-paying citizen has no access because they can't afford access. Would any person with at least two brain cells working overtime actually look at Washington and think, "Hmm, wow, they really ARE working in my best interest." I will fervently say that a fight on the lawn is not the way to remedy this. If anything, it is modern-day gladiatorial games diverting attention from the true problems facing the nation. "Look over here at these totally fun games, not over here at our cesspool of inequity."

Well, that was a fun exercise in futility, but I feel a little bit better. I think we determined that I am, indeed, a big wuss—but not because of this. If this is how we're going to celebrate 250 years of independence, we probably don't deserve another 250 without some real reflection and change. I hope you're as repulsed as I am, and if you aren't... go look in the mirror and slap yourself 250 times in honor of America and your own stupidity.

Dad out.

I will be the first person to say that I struggle with Memorial Day. It’s not because of what the day is supposed to represent, but what it has become. This weekend people and families across the nation are gearing up for a long weekend of BBQing, gathering and merriment. Which is why I always find myself wistful on Memorial Day.

Almost every service member today can name at least one person they've lost to war. Often we forget that service members are still fighting long after they return home and often lose to the battles within, but no less a result of their time spent "in country". This is exactly why I don't like this holiday. While most of the people around me are celebrating and often wishing me a "Happy Memorial Day", I don't share in that revelry.

I know the excitement for a long weekend comes from a good place. I even understand that civilians wishing me a 'Happy Memorial Day' is meant as a sign of respect and an affirmation of my service. But, for myself and I'm sure many other veterans, there is nothing happy about Memorial Day.

I've had this discussion many times with my fellow service members over the years and have gathered a few different viewpoints on the subject. Some veterans welcome the holiday with excitement, often saying they don't begrudge people for enjoying themselves, or they look at it as a big, happy party for the fallen. Other veterans despise this holiday and look callously at everyone enjoying themselves on a day which they believe should be marked with somber appreciation. For me, I am a mix between the two.

As I stated previously, I don't fault people for wanting to enjoy themselves without fully appreciating the holiday that affords them that opportunity. I think a lot of this has to do with the fact that most people have not been directly impacted by the loss that war causes. Let me expand.

If you haven't served, or if your family hasn't been handed a folded flag, the concept of war is mostly theoretical. It’s movies and history books. You can't force someone to feel the weight of a loss they haven't personally experienced, and honestly, I wouldn't wish that weight on them anyway. So, for me, I have to acknowledge that most people haven't been touched by the impact of Memorial Day.

I am also guilty of having the cliched family BBQ and, God forbid, even smiling and having fun over the weekend. But, inevitably, I am always hit with the sad realization and remembrance of people whom I've known that are now gone.

This weekend I encourage everyone to enjoy themselves responsibly and maybe pour one out. I would also ask that you take just a moment, in quiet reflection, to remember those we've lost and fully comprehend what that means. So have fun and remember the cost we've collectively incurred so we can continue to live and hopefully thrive here. America is far from perfect, especially now, but I will always be appreciative of what we have and the people that defend it, even when it's broken. I'm going to go smoke some ribs. Dad out.

My musing today reflects on the "adult struggle." I know we keep hearing from all of the Boomers out there that kids are soft, weak-minded, and unable to cope with the stresses of the world. I don't subscribe to that point of view. I don't think kids are better at handling our first-world adversity; I think they are just smart enough to know it's all meaningless garbage. They stick to the basics. We middle-agers, on the other hand, are drowning in it. And speaking for myself, I am just so tired of "the fight." Since you're still reading, I'll expand.

We adults are some of the most unyielding and immovable objects when it comes to change. I think this is true for a multitude of different reasons, but the biggest reason is because we are tired of "the fight". Now I'm not talking about literal fights; it's not like we're living in a world of UFC fighters getting into random dust-ups every day. That would be absolutely ridic....awesome! Actually, in my case I would constantly be getting my ass kicked because my body hurts and I break easily. I wish I knew why... Please envision me staring pensively into space. Sorry, I'm back; I tend to drift sometimes.

Moving back to the point, I'm speaking of the proverbial fight of everyday life. One thing I've learned about being a middle-aged man-baby is that I'm just tired of having to fight for and over everything. Just think about it, ¿enjoy politics? Fight. Your utility bills are out of control? Fight. You have a defective product? Fight. Not happy with a contractor? Fight. You're on an HOA board and not everyone likes what you're doing? Fight. Want your kids to wear shoes in winter? Fight.You don't like your kids' IEP and want it changed? Fight. I might be hitting a little too close to home on that last point, but I think you're beginning to understand what I'm talking about now.

The more I age, the more tired I become due to the struggle of just getting what I've paid for, need, or would like to have. I don't know when things changed from challenging and fun to tired and oppressive but that's where I often find myself these days. Not because I don't enjoy a challenge, but because we have to fight over the simplest, stupidest, shittiest things on a daily basis. Like, why can't people just do the things they're supposed to do or claim that they'll do? It would reduce so much friction. Come on, why is my escrow being adjusted by a thousand dollars every year!? Why is insurance going up when I've never had a claim, ever! Why do I have to reprimand a baby boomer for blatantly cutting in line at Costco? I'm just so tired of constantly fighting over the dumbest things!

This is why I miss war. Now, I know what you're thinking, "What kind of psycho misses war?!" I'll tell you who, this psycho! Please picture me holding two thumbs up, towards my body with a triumphant smile. That's right, war is pretty awful, but it's not all bad. Think of it this way, what do you have to worry about in a Combat Zone? Three simple things: chow, sleep, and not dying. War simplifies life into basic categories instead of all the meaningless BS that we have in a first-world country. Do you think civilians in an active war zone are concerned about their insurance premiums going up? Nope, because those things no longer exist when you're getting bombed and shot at. I know this seems dark, but I'm telling you, it's true!

This brings me to the point of this musing. Kids don't worry about any of those things. They're just like Soldiers; all they care about is the basics (chow, sleep, fun shit). I know that kids' base needs are all that they care about when they're young, but I think there's something to that because, at least for my kids, they're almost always happy.

In closing, let's all try to fight less and be more like kids. Eat a little trash once in a while, throw the occasional tantrum and take naps. I think the world would be a much better place if we all fought less and took more naps. Dad out.

We made it. We've finally arrived at the last day of school for the year and can exhale a long-held breath of relief. Every year comes with new expectations, uncertainties, and a strange resolution at the end.

It feels surreal in the sense that the beginning and end of the school years are specifically marked points in time. By identifying both a beginning and an end, it forces you to reflect with almost melancholic nostalgia on all of the ignored points in between.

I know it's not typical for me to wax poetic, but looking at my kids grow is a revelatory experience in the passage of time.

Being an adult, you begin to take these mini milestones for granted. We're done growing and have been set into who we are as people. There isn't that time lapse of exponential growth that we all see and experience in our early years. That's why observing it in your children is so magical.

Through them, it's a rekindling of that hope, wonder and constant change that, while disruptive, gets you excited and leaves you in awe of what currently is. It's easy to get caught in the doldrums of life; everyone does, but really taking moments like this to appreciate all of the amazing moments in between is such a privilege that only a parent gets to experience.

I know I'm speaking into the ether here, but thank you to all of the teachers, family, and supporting staff that help our kids grow and flourish. It's hard to work in education and you all have my utmost respect for what you do. I'm sorry this post is short, but I'm going to go soak up the last vestiges of the school year while I can. Dad out.

I like to take some pride in my cooking, but my kids sure don't. It's one of the few things that I do relatively well, but as the title plainly states, my kids hate my cooking. Now "hate" might be a bit of an overstatement, but I would estimate that they eat what I cook less than fifty percent of the time.

I get it. I know exactly what you're thinking, "bUt ThAt'S jUsT hOw KiDs ArE!" No. That's how we think they are. Everyone, even kids, is capable of appreciating a good meal. We don't have to feed them constant, processed slop to make them happy. At least that's the hill I'm dying on. I work damn hard to provide quality meals for my family, because I love them. But it get's super old day after day of your kids not eating what you make and then complaining incessantly to give them literal trash that a raccoon wouldn't even touch. I've seen things, I know.

This is also a point of mild debate between my wife and me. Now, I concede that she's somewhat of an "expert" (please envision me doing air quotes for effect) on the topic, being that she's a pediatric occupational therapist.

She consistently claims that our kids aren't picky. Every time it comes up, her face converts into a blank, 100-yard stare, and she states, "You haven't seen picky." in her most ominous voice. I will also caveat this point by stating that she participated in a research study while attending grad school on picky eating in children. Pffft, big deal! I know what my eyes perceive and my feelings feel.

So, what do I do to alleviate this burden on my children and myself? I try to make foods that I think they would enjoy but still aren't made of garbage. This leads me to the crux of my current situation. Eating healthy is expensive. It just is. I don't know why, but I'm guessing that quality products take more time to produce, etc...Whatever, it's horseshit. If it's what all producers committed to, it wouldn't be a big deal, but people and businesses typically like to take the path of least resistance and that means crap food at a discount. So, you can imagine how frustrating it might be when you spend the time and money to plan and execute awesome meals just to have your kids not eat them! It's infuriating.

To add fuel to the fire, my youngest is predominantly nonverbal. While eating meals, she'll often audibly say, "no, no, no" to eating the meal provided. Then to rub salt in the wound, on her "talker" (it's an iPad with pre-programmed words or phrases that will say out loud the picture she touches), she'll then politely say what she does want, which is usually "cookies", "crackers", or "ice cream". Which is fine, we all have our own preferences, right?

Wrong, she'll hammer that picture over and over again until you actually start to believe what she's saying sounds like a good idea. I'm not talking about tapping that thing a few times, oh no. She is incessant and makes sure you know what she wants, even after we say no, by hammering you with that monotone, robotic voice. "Cookie, cookie, cookie, cookie. Cheez-Its, cookie, cracker." I think you get the point.

The point is, I keep trying and I will continue to try regardless of the outcome because I love my family. They deserve my best and I'm going to give it one uneaten meal at a time. Dad out.

(These are a few of the meals both kids did eat...mostly. )

I installed a toilet. Now, installing a new toilet isn't typically something to brag about. Hell, it might even be a basic requirement to obtain your "man-card"—I wouldn't know because I don't usually care about those things. But for me, this was a massive deal.

I am not handy. Like, really not handy. I never learned those typical craftsmanship skills that young boys usually pick up at an early age. There are several reasons for that, but they're inconsequential to where I am today.

Since becoming a homeowner, I have increasingly tried to add practical skills to my proverbial toolbox. I've done tiling, installed faucets, shoot, I even put in an entire pergola. Every single project was extremely stressful to begin with.

You might be thinking, "What's so stressful about installing a toilet?" For me, it's because it takes me completely out of my wheelhouse. Electronics? I got you. Need to disassemble a gun? No problem. How about cooking a meal worthy of the ones you love? Yes. But when it comes to handiwork, I typically don't even know where to begin.

I also have the type of personality where I need to understand something fully before I feel comfortable executing it. For example, before installing this toilet, I had to know exactly how it worked. What type of seal do I need? What are the benefits of the different chair heights? What flush valve do I want? It's insanity. I imagine most people just go buy a toilet and that's that.

But while deciding on a toilet, I knew one thing for certain: I had to have a bidet. I have been waiting years to get one. The Army ruins you on proper hygiene because if you're out in the field with mud-butt or swamp ass, you are absolutely miserable. When my wife and I initially got together, she thought my obsession with having a clean B-hole was quite weird. Sorry, it's just who I am.

The quick backstory is that several years ago we toured Italy for a few weeks, and there were bidets in every hotel. It was divine. My chocolate starfish never felt so fresh, and I've never forgotten the joy of being able to wash up after every number two. I wanted to capture that magic at home.

So, with my wife's blessing, I bought a bidet toilet. Nothing too fancy requiring electricity, a heated seat, or hot water. Just a simple spritz of water. Amazing. Instead of spending the money to have a professional put it in, I felt it was high time I added toilet installation to my repertoire.

This toilet is 110 lbs, and we needed to get it to the second floor. My back is absolutely destroyed from the Army, but I'm functional. So, I enlisted my wife to help me get this thing upstairs. It wasn't pretty, but we got that big bastard up there, just to begin the hardest part of this project: the installation.

Removing the old toilet was no problem. I had that piece of junk out of there lickety-split. But getting the new toilet installed was a whole 'nother animal. For the most part, getting it set and sealed wasn't the issue. Connecting all of the water lines in a tight space was the real nightmare. After getting this porcelain throne of butt cleanliness set, I realized we had a leak at one of the water connections. No problem, I thought, I'll just tighten that thing up, razzle-dazzle, and I'm on my way to fresh-town.

Nope. There was zero room behind this single-piece behemoth to get a wrench in. I had to pull it back out to tighten all of the loose connections. I thought I had it, I really did. But I was wrong. So wrong. I turned the water back on and it immediately started dripping, mocking my manhood.

I called my best friend, who also happens to be a contractor, lamenting my problem. He recommended lathering it with silicone if I was going to be a lazy POS and not pull it back out. So, I made my drive of shame to Home Depot.

Going to Home Depot is always an interesting experience. There are people there whom you can tell immediately know exactly what they're doing, and then there's me and the rest of the lost boys. We always offer each other a solemn head nod in recognition that we don't know WTF we're doing when we pass each other in the plumbing aisle. But that nod of encouragement means everything.

Anyway, I bought that silicone caulk, shamefully drove myself back home, and slathered that shit on. It didn't work. After waiting an hour (30 minutes past the recommended cure time, mind you), the drip actually seemed to mock me by being WORSE.

I again, shamefully, pulled the toilet entirely up. I tightened every single connection to the max and, in total self-deprecation, called my wife for the third time to help me guide the toilet back onto the flange.

Well, this time it worked! No leaks, it flushes beautifully, and the grand finale? It washes my ass. Now, look above and behold my triumph!

The moral of the story? Be uncomfortable and do uncomfortable things. You'll be glad ya did.

Dad out.

One thing I will be eternally grateful for is our community. In today's society, it often feels like we're all living on islands. Sure, your island might be right next to someone else's, but the water between you feels deep. I don't know exactly when this cultural shift happened, but I know it occurred within my 44 years. Folks just don't seem to have the time, willingness, or energy to get to know their neighbors anymore—much to their own detriment.

We are currently living in our second house. Our first was a starter home in an okay neighborhood. It was safe and predominantly quiet—except on major holidays, when every redneck in the subdivision thought it appropriate to light off cascades of fireworks in the small park directly outside our back door. Fantastic environment for a recently returned Soldier from Iraq. 😐

But as I said, the neighborhood was fine. The only thing that felt odd was the total lack of interaction. Everyone kept to themselves. It’s not that people were actively unkind, but there seemed to be an unspoken rule that you simply shouldn't engage. Ironically, the only neighbors I had any type of positive relationship with were immigrants to the US; they were exceptionally kind and always made a point to say hello. The same could not be said for our native-born neighbors. Maybe there's a separate commentary to be made there.

Now, it might sound like we were trying really hard to form a community back then... we weren't. We were absolutely part of the perceived problem.

We stayed in that house for about ten years. Once we had our first daughter, we decided it was time to move. The house wasn't big, and the local schools were hot garbage. So, about seven years ago, we moved into our current home.

The difference was night and day. People actually went out of their way to introduce themselves. They seemed genuinely curious about us, which was a complete 180 from what we were used to. To put a cherry on top, my wife grew up in this neighborhood, so we had family living just a few blocks away. (Free childcare, baby! Yeah!)

We quickly became friends with most of our immediate neighbors. If you think back to seven years ago, we were eventually rolling right into the pandemic. As the kids have gotten older and folks have gotten busier, our opportunities to just hang out have dwindled. BUT, I know I can count on this community to help when we need it.

Which brings me to the inspiration for today's musing.

My oldest is the final hold-out in our house being sick. We thought she was over it, but alas, she started spewing the nonexistent contents of her stomach into the wee hours of the morning. Hence, no school again for the third or fourth day this week. (I don't remember; my brain no workie like it used to.)

This created a massive logistical problem this morning.

If you've read any of my previous posts, you've probably deduced that I've got problems. Lots of medical problems. None of them are life-threatening, just time-consuming and debilitating. I'm essentially a walking dumpster fire. Today, I had a scheduled appointment with an orthopod—an appointment I've already had to reschedule twice because of life. I really had to go, my wife had to go to work, and my sick daughter had to stay home.

She's right in that grey area of being old enough to stay home alone for prolonged periods, but not quite old enough for us to be completely comfortable with it—especially while she's been emptying her guts for days.

So, what did we do? I called a neighbor. Without hesitation, he graciously offered to be on standby if she needed help, and even offered to come sit with her if necessary.

And here we arrive at the entire reason for this post: I have great neighbors. It's not because we live in some anomalous, magical place. It's because we are surrounded by people who decided to put in the effort to make it great. I could go on about all the reasons I love this area, but that would detract from my main point: everyone can have this exact same thing. We just have to put in the effort. We have to actually talk to one another face-to-face. We have to be genuinely interested in each other's welfare. Maybe smile and wave when someone drives by instead of keeping our heads buried in our phones. Take a walk and talk to someone on your street for the simple reason of being a good neighbor.

There's a lot of division in the country today, but if we can all take a little time to actually connect with the people right next door, we can lessen that gap. (It also helps that our HOA doesn't allow political yard signs.)

In closing, I want to offer a heartfelt thank you to all of my neighbors who continue to make life just a little less daunting. Thank you.

Dad out.

So, I have Multiple Sclerosis, or am I a person living with Multiple Sclerosis? I can't keep up with what's socially correct anymore, so we'll stick with me just having the damned disease. I'll be direct in saying that it's a shitty disease. Not just for me, but for the people closest to me. I'll expand more on this pity party in a future post.

By most standards, I'm doing pretty well, all things considered. I have limited disease progression. I'm still predominantly mobile and the permanent damage done to my nervous system is manageable. I have a permanent 6th cranial nerve palsy, which causes double vision or diplopia for you medical nerds. I also have all of the included bells and whistles that come with the disease when you purchase the extended warranty: polyneuropathy, pain, strange sensations, shooting pain, and, of course, debilitating fatigue, to name a few... I don't want to give away all my secrets just yet.

I say all this because it's relevant to my lived experience as a parent, especially considering I am a stay-at-home parent. Most parents are tired and in good health, and I don't want to impugn the lived experiences of other people. But I feel like I can't always relate when others say they're tired. It's not because they aren't tired, but it's because I can still remember what being tired was like before MS, and it's not the same. (There are absolutely too many "tireds" in this paragraph and it's making me tired.)

So, you may be curious as to why I'm droning on about how tired I am and why I'm probably more tired than you? Right? It's because the way I feel has adversely impacted my ability to appropriately feel empathy. It's not that I don't have it! For my kids, empathy abounds (mostly, unless it's something stupid), but when it comes to my fellow adults, I have less of a reserve. I believe this is especially impactful for my favorite fellow adult, my wife.

You may recall that we've had a wave of brown bombers come through our home, painting toilets and ruining underwear. Needless to say, we've had some folks feeling a bit under the weather in the BeardDad household. I've found that finding softness with the ones I love has become a real challenge for me when they aren't well. My current, constant, lived experience is most often rife with pain and fatigue but I'm still expected to function like everyone else and I've come to expect the same from others which isn't fair to them at all. I am sorry for that.

So, what's the point? My point is that, regardless of what you may be experiencing, it's important to show appropriate care and compassion for the people that matter most in your life, if not all human beings. Being a dad and husband isn't supposed to be about feeling sorry for yourself all of the time when things suck; it's about taking care of people and also taking care of yourself so you can continue to do the job and not be a shitty person while doing it. I'm going to try and hold myself more accountable, and I would encourage you to do the same. Dad out.

This giraffe is a terrorist. I know it's dark in the photo and that's on purpose. The reason I didn't highlight this asshole is because this is often how I come into contact with it. It will be in the dead of night or a cloudy day and I'll round a corner to see this silhouette haunting me from a new location.

The rational side of me understands that it's just my daughter playing around and moving the thing, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if it has consciousness. Just look at the way it stares at you with a knowing smirk saying, "I see you and you are lacking". I'm sorry, but I feel judged.

The worst encounters are when I'm going to bed and she placed this thing directly in my path; only it's dark and now I have to contend with a 5' tall stuffed giraffe that I wasn't expecting, all in the dead of night. I can't tell you how many times I've almost come to fisticuffs with a stuffed animal. This giraffe is a terrorist. If you ever see one in the store, walk the other way. Dad out.

One thing you need to get acclimated to quickly as a parent is the full gamut of bodily fluids. Lately, our household has been ravaged by sickness, which isn't completely abnormal having two kids in school, but this bug was on a whole new level. I'm talking about nuclear poops here. Everyone in the house was spraying ass shrapnel everywhere like it was the apocalypse. My youngest, who still isn't potty-trained (more on that another time), was filling diapers up like tiny shit-filled swimming pools. My God, it was horrendous! One morning we awoke to her covered in her own poop like a pig in mud, and no one thought it was fun or cute. I had to wash her sheets and clothes twice. It was that bad. There's nothing more humbling than wringing out poop water in the bathroom sink. If you ever come visit, I swear it's been sanitized.

You would think that whatever has been haunting our household would burn its way through in a few short days, but nope! Like the Cranberries song, this one has to linger. It all started with me and lasted just over five days before I stopped the sewage leak that was pouring out of my 4th point of contact. It subsequently moved on to my youngest... then my wife and finally my oldest. Like I stated earlier, a fast burn would've been much more preferable to the weeks-long affair that this has become. I have cleaned multiple toilets, stocked several rolls of toilet paper and went through so many electrolyte tabs... so much poop.

So, if you too are going through something similar, you are definitely not alone and, if you have the time, please pray for us, for we have sinned. I'm not sure what offense we may have caused the universe, but it seems that it was a grievous injury. Dad out.

Update: We can now add voluminous vomit to this enduring saga.🤮🫠

When learning programming, your first project is typically a "Hello World" project where you, as the student, write a string of text in the editor and, when you execute a specific command, it outputs the aforementioned phrase to the console.

This is my hello world moment in putting my thoughts to the digital page. An introduction, if you will. My intent with this digital memoir is to entertain, poorly educate, and maybe make a few people laugh about the machinations of my life. So stay tuned and, if you've made it this far, thank you for reading BeardDad.