Maybe this’ll be different.

I had sent word to my dad to let him know when I’d be coming home for a visit after one of my earlier years of college, and I hadn’t heard back from him for several days. While never one for prompt correspondence, it was slightly unusual. But unlike other times when he’d explain his absence with a two-part summation involving an activity and location like “ice climbing” and “Mount Rainier” or “kayaking” and “Bighorn River” this time he simply said that he was sorry he hadn’t gotten back to me because he’d been “out of town for Sibyl’s funeral.”

That was how he told me my grandmother, his mother, was dead.

The years showed that this was neither out of the norm of the level I was involved nor the worst way he could deliver news, so it’s actually a perfect example.

Now I’m actually reeling, completely unprepared emotionally for what I’m feeling, in reading actual messages from the former family. I’m so out of the loop I had to ask my son who this person was with the cool name only to find out it’s my wife’s youngest brother, my boy’s own uncle. It sounds for all the world, for the first time, that someone out there that shares her blood is willing to set aside any and all of the ridiculous bullshit that’s kept them apart, for the sake of coming together.

And I don’t know how to feel about that.

That’s not actually true. I know how I feel about that. I’m elated. Overjoyed. Buoyed. Hopeful.

But those are all incredibly dangerous emotions when you’re already weakened, beaten down. Vulnerable.

Her grandmother passed on Sunday. How we found out is too pitarded and inane to let only these words at, so I’m foregoing that part. We found out and it wasn’t directed towards us, ’nuff said.

Now Uncle CoolName tells my son that my wife’s auntie, long-estranged for reasons no doubt as stupid as ours, died the Thursday before. Cancer.

And I had one of those instant thoughts, the kind that make you anxious that they’re inappropriate or weird or wrong. My first thought was, “Did Nan know? Somehow, through her dementia, did it make it in that her youngest daughter was dead? Did that cause a ripple effect that eventually moved her on as well?”

Suffice to say that anytime in your late 90’s is a perfect acceptable, needs no explanation, time to pass on. But still. The thought was there.

And in this, the time afterward, where we’re floating and stuck and forgotten and neither she nor I nor our children have ANY FUCKING IDEA what it was that we did that was so awful, so despicable, so unforgivable, that we were simply excised from the entire family. In this time, I wonder to myself, what comes next?

Where do we go from here?

The truth is probably that people that have been shitty are still going to be shitty, and people that were neutral or ineffectual or fence-sitting are probably going to still be like that too. No one has really changed, nor will they. They were what they were and they are what they are, and maybe it’s our foolish egos that keep wondering what it is about US that makes these people be this way.

I mean, there’s nothing in any way to suggest in my life that I wouldn’t want to know about my Grammy passing on, yet my father simply didn’t think of that. Maybe it’s something similar with people that have never considered even the smallest of things, like the fact that everyone in the entire family knew who Nan’s miniatures were meant to go to rightfully.

Maybe all these things just never occur to them. And here we are wondering what it is about us that’s gotten us here. Maybe the truth is: Nothing. This is just who they are. This is just who we are.

Maybe if we’re all better at accepting that, moving forward into this, the time after The Great Nonsense, we’ll do better at doing it together.

There’s Spinach in My Pants.

I may be letting a bit of a secret out by admitting this, but… I’m not really just like I am in this diary versus Real Life. I write in here with stories and opinions that paint a certain picture, build a persona of someone that isn’t quite like me.

When the time comes for your beloved Wife to undergo painful and serious abdominal surgery in order to bring forth your child, you take it VERY seriously. So be warned, these pictures are NOT meant to be funny.

30 CCs of something medical sounding, STAT!

I lied about being in IT, I actually AM a doctor. I had just finished my rounds when Wife was wheeled into the PreGettingBabyCutOuttaYou Area.

And by “rounds”, I mean “can you believe they didn’t even kick me out or ask me to knock it off?”

Some SERIOUS Awwwwww

I found out that you don’t need tits to make the sounds coming out of her head stop.

I can’t be positive, but I think she looks like me.

I’m also not completely certain, but I may actually be completely, 100 percent, absolutely, wholly and truly, lamblastedly, shaznasterly, SMITTEN with my child.

Mummy captured her First Car Ride

We got to take her home on Australia Day and I think I managed to convinced her that the fireworks and barbecues were all in her honour. She’s obviously not impressed, but that may be because Mother Nature tried to cook her. She does this though, this sleeping thing, where she sleeps all the time. Sleepy. Sleepery.

I’ve dumped more than a few extremely personal and private things here in this diary, but because of certain circumstances and by the very nature of what has become Web 2.0, it’s not quite for that anymore. I come here to keep in touch with those of you that can’t be bothered changing bookmarks or buddy lists and all that shit.

For those that care and haven’t been there yet, there are more pictures and baby awesomeness and love and everything that’s wonderfully goo about the World over in my other diary. Email me If that doesn’t work, then leave a comment in here with your email addy. If that doesn’t work, then join up on the Notify Thingy, get a Notify email from me which has my current email on it, and then cancel the Notify thingy and stalk me long enough for me to get you to put random groceries in my fridge. Crap, you can go to the GuestBook too, I think, that’ll get me your email without giving it to the spammers, which is exactly why I don’t put it on here. Thanks.


She’s happy, she’s healthy, she’s perfect.

Simply Perfect.

They made me leave the hospital, though I tried to stay, and I am home now, staying up much later than Wife would allow given the amount of sleep (~4 hours over last 2 days) and excitement (~50 Brazillian Shitloads) I’ve had lately, but I can’t seem to settle down.

So, I’m going to have a shot of Tequila, as I love it and it was my Xmas present, and try to carve from this night a slice of sleep.

My bed, a soft, welcoming, and recently laundered place, is empty with the exception of me, and one of the most profoundest of understatements that I could muster right now would be this:

I’m NOT looking forward to my first night away from Wife since I came here.

But I AM looking forward to seeing my baby again. I do love her so.

Pictures and more later. Smooches.

So. Writing. And Work.

I actually wrote this in an email to a friend, but then figured I’d not only like more concrete documentation of this line of thinking than an item in my “Sent” folder, but that I’d like to share it with more than just one person.

I?ve been doing lots of thinking about this kind of shit in the last few weeks/months. I?ve even written about it before, but probably in one of the other blogs and not JH, and it?s getting to be something of an issue in Life.

See, the thing is, unlike a great many, I actually Know where my passions lie. And, also unlike a great many, I’m starting to learn that I may actually have a talent for them. Much like you, El Puerco, and my amazing and wonderful wife, I?m pretty good at this writing thing. And I wanna do it, like all the time ?n stuff.

Then there?s work. I am in the Fucking IT field, and Yes I capitalise it because it means that to me, where I am good at what I do and can be quite successful if I choose to be. I?ve seen how it happens and I know what to do to make it a reality.

At the end of the day, what will I have?

More money, sure, but kids that have grown without me knowing and a wife who knows that I love her? on the weekends. Needless to say, Not for me. And I mean, No Fucking Way In Hell for me, thanks.

I drive to work, fighting retarded commuter traffic, and work 9 to 5 like the rest of the slobbering shitwipes in the Rat Race, and then I go home, where Life really is. I have about 2 hours with my kids, playing on the floor and watching the Simpsons, but they gotta eat and it takes them for fucking ever sometimes, so it?s really about an hour or so. Then, it?s another 2 or so hours with Wife and then bed. Then, get up in the morning, get the boy’s lunch and their brekky ready and then do it all over again.

Is it worth it? Welp, gotta pay bills and eat. There you go.

Thing is, you don?t see a lot of time for writing in there do you? Nup.

I?m fine with that, for now, because I wouldn?t trade my time with my family for anything in the World, and I gotta be at work at least 8 hours in order to make enough money to eat and have a house and shoes n? shit. There?s no time to write, but my time is buying some important things. Again? for now.

I?m not sure what you?ve got for a social life, but if you?ve got the time, then WRITE. Do it. Write as much as you can and as often as you can. I?m not one for dropping names (?cept Russell Crowe and that?s only because I like to say that I heard his cock stinks) but I actually used to correspond with Augusten Burroughs, who wrote some of my favourite books and is a #1 bestselling author and I think is even making a movie or something. He?s special and famous and shit, and gave ME writing advice, cos I really AM that cool (someday I’ll write about that time I met the Brit Asshole from American Idol and thought he was somebody I knew from hockey. Heh. Classic).

His advice though, was basically just what I told you: Write. Alla time. Always.

You?ll get better at it the more you do it as well as be busy building a repertoire, a repository, a bunch of cool shit that you can someday do something with. You?ll be able to have enough examples of random shit that anyone possibly interested could even think of.

Somebody at a newspaper says, “Can yeh write up somebody’s obit?” and you say casually, “Actually, just to be morbid and because I was pissed at him for that crack about my grades in High School… here’s my father’s. Oh, he’s not really dead either, so you can ask him how good that one is. Ignore the paragraph about the cause of death being a flame-engulfed kayak paddle to the rectum and you’ll find it’s actually pretty accurate.”

I’ve even got me a blog where I write nothing but the shit from my brain. And by “shit” I mean “excrement” coz that’s what it is. Shit. But it needs out and it feels cool to get it out and be partially entertained by it. Nobody reads that one, ‘cept Wife, and that’s how I like it.

See? Even writing Shit is still good for writing skilz. Fuck, do like the Smartypants chick and just stick it all in a book. Hell, call blog entries chapters and you would barely need to edit.

So that’s my advice. Same as Augusten’s and he’s brilliant and if I met him in person I’d kiss him full on the lips and I don’t care that he loves smokin’ him some pole. No tongue tho cos I’m married.

I honestly don’t know how long for the corporate world in the Information Age I am. I mean, all up, I still just make fucking websites, it’s not like I’m curing Cancer or curing anything cool with the word “genital” in it. Ask Wife, I still lay in bed some nights and piss and moan about this career, vowing to chuck it all in and not care if the 4 (soon to be 5) of us huddle under a goddam scrap of cardboard as long as we’re happy, and all that.

Life’s too short to wait too long for the really, Really, good shit. If you’re anything like me, then writing is your Really Good Shit, or at least can provide for it, and you need to Get On It.

Fuck, I’ve sat here through my lunch break writing this and now I’m all ready to just jump up, tip my desk over, throw my monitor out the window and onto the odd Korean who sells me Sausage Rolls, and fucking go home and write a book that will feed me and my family for the next 37 years.

When I haven’t, and it’s 5:30, and I’ve finished yet another fucking website, and I’m headed home, and I’m tuning in the traffic report to see whether or not to avoid the Graham Farmer Freeway, please don’t ask me why I didn’t. Don’t or I’ll fart on you. And lately they’ve been a weird combination of sweet cigar and rotten cabbage, with a hint of nutmeg. It isn’t worth it.

I’ll get to it soon. Serious. Just not sure when, but it’ll happen. Ask Wife, I get that look in my eye, and she knows it’ll happen.

Shatsicles, I gotta get back to it.

Take care o’ you.