. . . and then there was pickle.

On the heels of our mutual attacks - The Wife and I must face the most difficult of subjects: Why the hell am I married to you, again?

The annual affair, now in its third year, tends to bring up all those questions regarding why it is that we’re married, what you expected it to be, what it really is, and are you happy in it?

So far I give us a B+.

My biggest fear about getting married was that she’d stop having sex (especially with me). That didn’t happen. So everything else can be tolerated.

All comedic tendencies aside, we have a fantastic marriage. We are a relaxed comfortable team that communicates our needs, fears, and goals while working to better our lives and spirits together.

The biggest thing - is that we have fun together. I am so happy to be sharing my life experience with her, and feel lucky to be allowed to be on her journey as well.



I think the most gratifying part of marriage, which I never could have understood before taking the leap - is that I am never alone. I will never have to face my fears, traumas, and failures alone again.

The Wife is at my side, and I at hers – for better or worse.

There is a peace and strength that comes from giving yourself to someone in marriage that can come in no other way, and the key to its success is trust, acceptance, and the overwhelming desire to make the other person happy.

I have spent the majority of my life living as selfishly as one could imagine, and the main reason I married my wife was because she was the first person I ever met that brought me joy through her happiness - without any anticipated or expected reciprocation.

I love making my wife happy. There are times when I don’t. Mainly when I see a single act in opposition to her greater good and well being, but I try.

I have been lucky enough to have felt and fallen in love more times than I should have. Perhaps it is something in my nature, but there is nothing like the passion and awe of love coupled with an honest and healthy relationship.

I owe that to my wife, without whom I never would have known how to love in peace - and live with, for, and through another person.

This is our first anniversary as parents, and after everything that has happened in the last year to bring The Pickle into our lives - I have come to a new understanding and depth to the love and life that we share.

I cannot imagine going through what we have with anyone else, and I see our beautiful little family as the most perfect balance and collection of souls that have ever been brought together in this world.



It brings tears to my eyes to think of growing old with you and watching our world and work become the life that you deserve.

I love you so much knowing that we are whole, and that we have a lifetime of mistakes and dreams to live together.

I love you.

Happy Anniversary.

There is something to be said for the idea of going down on a sinking ship. We all hold the captain who rides his vessel down to the depths of Davey Jones’ locker in the highest regard, but there’s a funny thing that happens to you as you get older, have kids, and realize that death is real - and some decisions you make will have dire and irreversible consequences.

I now have a daughter.

For the majority of my life I have taken the big risk, and refused to quit. I did this even when all indications were that I was wrong, and probably screwing up my life. My biggest proof of this fact is that I spent my twenties building a career as a professional actor in Cleveland, OH.

This was not the easiest path. . . nor the smartest of moves.

I have track marks on my arms from selling my plasma, and probably will until the day I die. I did that when I knew I had to take acting jobs to build my resume that didn't pay me enough to eat. Those marks are a constant reminder of how hard it was to get where I am.

These days I am older and less motivated to prove that I can do something just to be hardheaded. And I now worry and wonder about my daughter, and what will drive her big choices.

I based most of my decisions on whether or not I felt people believed I could accomplish a goal. If someone ever told me I couldn’t do something - you could bet the farm I would see it through.

The reason I became this way was my father. My old man is a dreamer. But there is a big difference between a man who dreams and a man who works to see his dreams become reality.

My father would rather fantasize about his heart’s deepest wishes than act on them - because when he was younger he had his dream crushed. It’s a lot easier on your heart to dream than to fail.

As a child I bought into all of my dad’s schemes. I wanted his dreams to change the world the way he imagined that they could. But every time he would begin the process of launching his latest idea . . . he would become distracted by his next obsession.

It broke my heart over and over again.

As a child I vowed to finish what I started, and I have seen things through against insurmountable odds and logic.

I do not think that this is solely a process of instinct. I was trained to hate quitting.

Soon my daughter is going to hate her piano lessons. There will be classes and cliques that will lead her to want to walk away, and my reaction and support of her in these choices will inform her view and value of completing a task once assumed.

I am a success today because I refused to quit, but life sure could have been a lot easier – and I certainly don’t want my daughter to have to suffer in the same ways I did.

Each generation is supposed to make advances. I want my daughter to understand the satisfaction of crossing the finish line without having to have a single-minded obsession or disregard for common sense.

Maybe she’ll get it right.

Like so much of the burden we put on our children – I want her to be able to do what I was unable to do. I want her to understand that it’s just a ship. I want her to pick the right one, and to carry a life preserver because we all get wet. But the truth is that when she does want to walk away from her goals - I am going to see my father in her eyes.

How am I going to react, and what is the right thing to do?

My success has been the road less traveled. I know that if I had listened to logic or anyone that supposedly ‘knew something’ I never would have had my career, but does that make it right for her . . . and how could I pass that drive on anyway?

In all of this I have overlooked the one most important fact: the love I have for this child. I know that when she finds her dream within her heart it will be all I can do to give her the support and guidance of one who knows how hard reality can be and hope her ship has an easier path than mine . . . or my father’s.

Pickle’s Papa

Well, I suppose I can admit that I guess I am no longer creative at all, but merely read other people's blogs and either expand on their posts or do an offshoot inspired by something I've read. I'm ok with that, and this is yet again another example. After reading this post on Creative Type Dad I was reminded of this fantastic story.

This is a true.

A colleague of mine’s husband had their toddler/potty training daughter in the mall when she expressed her desire to go to the bathroom.

Everything was going along fine – sans the potty.

The bathroom was fairly busy with the sounds of many men going about their business outside the cramped stall where he was trying to convince his daughter to go.

This is when she uttered the most horrific phrase that any man has ever heard in this situation:

“You’re not my Daddy.”

Uhmmm.

“Where’s daddy?, You’re not my daddy.”

. . . yeah. So as the angry and malicious crowd gathered outside the stall ready to pounce - the man did the only thing he could do . . .

Gasp in horror.

I don’t think any man has ever feared for his life more as he dressed his daughter and tried to make his way from the can. She continued to say the dreaded phrase as they walked out of the stall when he was stopped at the door by several men who wanted proof that the girl was, in fact, his offspring.

Soon security arrived and despite his protestations the girl continued to utter the same phrase over and over – “You’re not my daddy.”

After great anticipation and phone calls and the final arrival of mommy the police finally accepted the fact that the girl was his.

As soon as Mommy arrived the girl gave in and admitted her game. When asked why - she simply said, “I don’t know . . .” and smiled.

You know that smile.

So beware all fathers out there. Just remember at any given moment your daughter can have you strung up by your testicles in public.

I'm just glad she looks so much like me. Nobody would believe her and they'd understand why she would want to distance herself from me.

Just thought I’d share that horror story.

Pickle’s Papa