. . . and then there was pickle.

And behold god spake unto my wife saying on the eighth day I have created buying in bulk . . . and it was good.

I was not there to witness the epiphany or the act of giving herself to the goodness that took place, but the years of preaching the good word have paid off – and The Wife has seen the light.

For when I returned from my day at work yesterday I found a plastic container of 24 rolls of toilet paper, 16 rolls of paper towel, and a box of diapers that may have had its own gravitational pull.

Halleluiah!!!


For you see my brothers, I grew up in a world where the peanut butter jar had to be opened with a can opener, and the dog food at the bottom of the 55 gallon drum was so stale that by the time Dutchess got to it . . . it doubled as a plaque scraper.

And for years - I have argued the point that we. are not. going to stop. Not going to stop needing these items any time soon . . . So why not buy enough to keep from having to run to the store for the same shit over and over and over?

And I believe. I believe that my wife was convinced that she could cheat death out of that second loaf of bread. Yes that's right, because if she didn’t buy it . . . and she happened to die (HAHAHAHA!!!!).

But the bulk buyer doesn't work that way . . . no.

I owe this miracle to my devoted OCD counterpart "Mya’s Mommy" with whom The Wife went to Target and, with the subtle art of a hooker on prom night, nudged my wife toward the understanding that, “yes, . . . that roll is a dollar, and THAT one is sixty cents.”

Now you must understand, Oh my bretheren, for years this has been a point of contention. A strained fragment of the tension between the wife and I, and one I had accepted to never . . . never find victory. And yes, I had reached that lowest of low places where even I had assumed that The Wife was not going to ever give into logic on this - and to continue her battle of will. Her battle of will against having to spend that much on toilet paper (I’ll save her aversion to pay for parking for another post).

I cannot tell you the joy, Nay, the love I am filled with to see my wife come full circle and finally understand that in buying that much at once - you’re actually spending less. Spending less on toilet paper. Spending less on Peanut Butter. Spending less on Sanitary Napkins . . . and less on gas for having to run to the store every two days to get some stupid shit that you’ve run out of.

And lo though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the Dollar Store. I will fear no Drug Mart. Thy Costco and thy Sam’s Club shall comfort me. For thine is the kindom of bulk and I will buy by the PALLATE!!

Can I get an AMEN?!!?

Pickle’s Papa

Necessity is the mother of desperation, and today I spent the day working with Ryan installing satellite TV in strangers homes. Not that if I knew any of them it would have made my job any easier, but at least then I would have had an excuse for my incompetence.

I have always been ‘handy’, but there is a big difference between working on your own project and being a professional technician. I am not a professional technician.

As I am still unemployed, not having heard back from my recent interview yet, and feeling the tug and twinge of the impending need for income – I ventured forth to do what most people do every day.

I left my home to go do a job.

I have led a spoiled, sheltered, idealistic adulthood that has enabled me to believe that one should be paid to do what one is good at and/or loves. Jobs have little to do with that premise.

A job is an exchange of your life for money. That is my rough summation of the concept. I’m not used to expending energy against my will. In fact I am not really used to expending energy at all these days.

My recent vocation, daddy, is more of an effort or exercise in will, determination, and logic. I am not used to the idea that my physical discomfort has an equal and reciprocated value in dollars.

Because today I was uncomfortable, and was so, in the pursuit of money.

This is a lesson I learned long ago in the mailroom of a best left forgotten newspaper where I was once the fasted ad stuffer this side of the Mississippi.

It is amazing how seven years working in your chosen profession will erase your memory, and work ethic.

I don’t like work. I love projects.

Today was a horrific reminder of how much I want to find a job in my field. I was once an excellent worker, and as I have aged and been spoiled - I am now perhaps the laziest man on the job that has ever lived.

This is not the historical path for me. I have always focused my OCD onto whatever task lie ahead of me – regardless of the job’s relevance or gratification. I think in my maturing understanding of the value of my soul and time, I have come to the acceptance - that toward many actions in this world . . . I just don’t give a shit.

I don’t care if you enjoy your television experience, but I do want to be able to wipe my daughter’s ass with hypoallergenic wipes - and today those two concepts somehow became related.

I am one in a thousand that discovered my calling, worked toward an education in my field – and built a resume and ties to the professional community that would allow for a sustainable career in the arts. I did so without wealth or family ties.

For the first time in my adult life I seem to find myself being pushed out of the center of my comfort zone in the working world. I know that I have said that this was a reasonable sacrifice to make for the support of my family, but when the act itself in upon you – it doesn’t feel very good.

And it isn’t that I look down on anyone that does anything but what I’m trying to do for a living. I think we all have different ways and approaches to satisfying our needs for personal fulfillment and the balance of financial support.

Ryan is one of the more intelligent people I know. He has a deeper understanding of all things scientific and mechanical than I could every hope to. He also has the vision and problem solving ability to walk into these people’s houses and within five minutes come up with an executable plan for the most time and cost effective solution to their unique situation.

I don’t care.

I think it may be the difference between a sculptor and a painter; or a gardener and a tree trimmer. I am definitely a gardener. I love to plant seeds and cultivate the right chaos for the right corner. Other people like to look at the chaos and whittle it down to a manageable and beautiful form.

The world needs both, but I haven’t been able to match my skill for developing a crop with the reality of feeding my growing herd.

Perhaps it is the same in parenting. It is the balance of the cultivation and the pruning that can make the stunning shape.

The trick is that as parents we don’t get to pick one role or the other. We have to do both, and I think that is what I am missing in my life. I need to relearn the ability to prune if I am to find the balance in my form.

Pickle’s Papa

The other day I was going through some of my old papers and such when I discovered a notebook of old writings and poems from high school. I was struck by how much, and little, my ideals have changed in almost twenty years. Hopefully my writing has improved.

This poem struck me as very relevant to a lot of my current questions regarding the development of a value system. I think I wrote this just about the time I realized I had one.

Life by the Lyrics


Elenor taught me
compassion for man.
The old fool on the hill
gave me patience at hand.

Comfortably Numb
taught me to set my goals as a human,
and Animals taught me
that life was confusion.

Lucy gave me dreams
when all seemed dim,
and Vera was there
to be my true friend.

The bombs did fall
as depression set in,
and the worms did crawl
as my dreams caved in.

The music told me
that life wasn't pure
and it told me that nothing
was ever too sure.

But it told me too
that if my heart was true,
anything I wanted
could be mine.

With hope, dreams, and
a life of pure goals;
no matter what happens
never sell your soul.

Because what you've seen before
will soon come again,
and that who was your enemy
will soon be your friend.

You can have everything that is,
and everything that will become
and everything, everything
under the sun.

I learned to live
and to be true to me,
because if I didn't
who would I be?

I set my goals to my conscience
not to society:
Least comes to money
chincy it may be.

Second to that
comes egotistical possessions,
and anyone reading this
could surely learn this lesson.

Then comes to others
that I do satisfy,
and now comes the toughest
that I fail, but consistently try.

Third is my country.
Second is me.
First and yet most ignored
is my sense of humanity.

It was my parents who actually
taught me right from wrong,
for you see it was them
that hummed me the song.



That, ladies and gentlemen, was crafted at the hand of Florence, AZ's 1982 first prize winner of the third grade poetry competition. It wasn't actually that poem that won me the prestigious honor, but I do think it was written about the time I was creative writing editor of my high school newspaper.

Yeah, I was that good. It's amazing I didn't end up writing for a living. Nowadays I kind of write so I can keep living.

Pickle's Papa