To my children: Just pick up the blanket

I was down in the basement a few minutes ago, and I was disheartened to find that one of you has, yet again, left a blanket on the floor.

You know the blanket I'm talking about. It's the one that has a green and blue plaid design on one side and white fleece on the other. I won it in a work raffle, I think, 15 or 20 years ago.

At least three times a week, I will come downstairs and find this blanket in a heap on the floor. And I know how it happens: One of you wraps it around yourself as you sit on the couch and watch TV (which I totally understand, given that it's a perpetual 27 degrees down there).

Then, when you're finished watching TV, you simply fling the blanket onto the floor, get off the couch, and go upstairs to attend to other things.

And there sits the blanket, which you got out of the storage cabinet in the entertainment center.

My plea to you is simple: Pick up the blanket.

It's not hard. When you're finished using the blanket, just fold it up and put it back where it belongs in the cabinet.

Heck, you don't even have to fold it if you don't want to. You can just crumple it into a big ball and throw it in there. But the important thing is that you pick it up and put it away.

Got that? Just pick it up and put it away. I've asked you to do this before and you have repeatedly failed to comply. All you have to do is pick it up and put it away. That's it. That's all I ask.

If I go around and ask who left the blanket out on the floor, chances are that all five of you will say it wasn't you. And since I know it wasn't me, and I'm 99.9% sure it wasn't your mother, then one of you either has a very bad memory or is outright lying.

Speaking of your mother, you need to think about her when you leave the blanket on the basement floor. She spends her days cleaning up messes you created, and she is now at her absolute limit. If you leave the blanket on the basement floor again and fail to pick it up and put it away (which, you'll recall, are the simple instructions I gave you earlier), she may snap.

I'm not kidding. She may lose it. And by "lose it," I don't mean that she might yell at you or anything. I mean she may literally murder one of you.

Again, you think I'm joking. I'm not. If she walks down into that basement and finds the blanket on the floor one more time, just one more time, I think it will be enough to push her over the edge. It won't surprise me in the least if she grabs a screwdriver and plunges it into one of your skulls.

I'm not condoning this behavior, mind you, but I'm also extremely sympathetic to her frustration. And when she goes on trial for this crime, I promise I'll be testifying on her behalf.

Because there's not much you're required to do here. This is maybe a 12-second job. When you're finished using the blanket, you just need to put it back into the cabinet. Don't leave it on the floor. Pick it up, then put it away. The folding part, as I mentioned before, is completely optional. Just put the blanket away.

I'm not home as often as your mother, seeing as I spend my days off working so as to earn enough money to buy products for you to leave on the floor. You don't only do this with the blanket. You leave everything from cups and plates to toys and chip bags on the floor. Where did we go wrong with you?

Seriously, at what point did we convey the idea that using something, then leaving it on the floor and walking away is OK? When was that even implied? Because it's not acceptable. Not in the least. Pick up the blanket. After you use it, pick it up and put it away. OK?

The temptation, of course, is to just put the blanket away myself when I see it. But all this does is perpetuate the problem. You'll just keep doing it unless we point it out to you and make you go back downstairs to put it away. Experience suggests you'll keep on doing it even then.

Which I don't understand, because I fail to see any complicating factors here that would prevent you from performing this small task for us. I will break it down into three steps, in case that helps:

Step 1: Pick the blanket up off the floor
Step 2: Fold the blanket (AGAIN, OPTIONAL)
Step 3: Put the blanket into the cabinet in the lower left corner of the entertainment center

Aaaaaaand, you're done. Finished. Nothing more to see or do here. Just put away the blanket. Please, when you're finished with it, just put away the blanket.

Put away the blanket.

The time suck of social media

I always thought that once I bought an iPad, I would become one of those social media ninjas who tweet 75 times a day, comment on 47 friends' Facebook statuses, upload eight photos an hour to Instagram and still find time to create a community of persimmon lovers on Pinterest.

I bought an iPad about a month ago. Want to know what I do with it?

I read newspapers, mostly. Or electronic versions of newspapers. And I also browse the web and scan Twitter, but my actual contributions to the social media world have not increased a whit.

(NOTE: I love that word, "whit." It's one of those words that seems like it should stand for something more common in the English language and therefore be more widely used, but it isn't. It's of Middle English origin and means the smallest part or particle imaginable. You know what other word I like? Skosh. It's similar to "whit" in that it means, simply, "a little bit." My dad used to say it all the time: "Move over a skosh." You pronounce it with a long "O," by the way.)

Sorry. The other thing for which I often use my iPad is looking up the definitions of archaic words. That's worth the $500 price tag right there!

Anyway, these people who take full advantage of social media for business and/or personal reasons amaze me.

Like, for instance, where do they get the time? All of the social media books will tell you it doesn't take a lot of time to reap the benefits of Facebook, Twitter, etc., but this is clearly a lie. Of course it takes a lot of time. They're not fooling anybody.

And I know many of these social media gurus. They are talented professionals who are very dedicated to their actual paying jobs. So again I ask, where does the time come from?

And now that I'm thinking about it, what's the real payoff? Networking? Sure, OK. Business promotion? Uh huh, to an extent, depending on how you do it. The satisfaction of quality social interactions? Yeah, that can be achieved by, you know, actually talking to people.

Don't get me wrong. I like surfing social media channels. It's fun. But that's just it. "Fun" is pretty much the only real benefit for me. I've never earned an extra dollar nor been hired on the strength of social media.

I have an army of LinkedIn connections that I have never really mined for professional gain. All I do with LinkedIn is accept requests to connect.

I'll connect with anybody on LinkedIn. And on Facebook, too. Just send me a request and you and I can be fast friends. Even if you're one of those (this is true, I get these all the time) scantily clad young women with whom I share no mutual connections who suddenly want to befriend me on Facebook. Sure, we can be friends! Just let me make sure it's OK with my wife first.

Incidentally, I'm not so naive that I don't realize that Nicole from Ottawa, the Victoria's Secret model look-alike who reaches out to me on Facebook, is actually Boris, a hairy-backed oil rig worker from Latvia. I choose to believe that Nicole is real and is deeply interested in me.

And I don't care one whit whether it's true or not.

These, believe it or not, are your finest days

If you don't mind, I'd like for you to read a quote I've lifted from a novel called "Water for Elephants." It's a tad long, but it sets the stage for my ramblings today, and you may even find it as inspirational as I do:

Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane; the times I had five kids, a chimpanzee, and a wife in bed with fever. Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull, or when I was bailing out some son or other...from a minor predicament at the police station, they were good years, grand years.

But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were in it up to our eyeballs, and next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and all alone.

You don't have to have children to appreciate the truth of those two paragraphs. You need only be someone who has been through great stress at one point or another. Which is to say, all of us.

If you read this little blog with any regularity, you've seen me wax forlorn over the chaos that is my life. I find myself running hither and yon from dawn to dusk, and I'm not even exactly sure where "yon" is, or why I'm supposed to run there. But I do.

Yet in all of my complaining, never does it escape me that I love this life. I absolutely love it. While there are many people whom I admire greatly, I would not trade my existence for anyone else's in the world.

I constantly worry about my children. I constantly complain about their inability to clean up a mess. I constantly fret over the ways in which I fall short as a husband and father.

And it's wonderful. Every minute of it.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I think there's a certain nobility in what we as human beings do every day in support of ourselves and those we love. We sacrifice our time and energy for goals we like to believe are bigger than us, and we are better creatures for having done so.

Occasionally I find myself longing for the days when the kids are grown and things finally slow down. But I know for certain I'll miss this rat race.

So lately I've reveled in the bedlam. And so should you.

Whether you recognize it or not, my friend, these are your finest days. Embrace them. Learn from them. Grow in them.

Because when it's all said and done, these are the times that will define who you were and what you stood for. And if you're playing your cards right, you should be pretty pleased with the outcome.

This isn't a post about baseball, it's a post about me being an emerging curmudgeon

According to this article from The New York Times, fewer and fewer people score baseball games by hand anymore.

The funny thing is, many reading this post have no idea what the phrase "score baseball games by hand" means.

For the uninitiated, one scores a baseball game by recording the result of every at-bat on a cardboard scorecard. Or at least they used to be cardboard back (say it with me) IN MY DAY.

There's a whole intricate system involved in scoring, the idea being that afterward you can relive the game by following the symbols and abbreviations that represent runs, hits, errors, strikeouts, fly outs, ground outs, line outs, and every other possible outcome.

One might justifiably ask why one would want to relive a baseball game one has already watched in person.

And I have no good answer.

Other than when I used to be a sports writer, I don't think I've ever gone back and retraced a baseball game solely by reviewing a scorecard. The real value of doing it, I always thought, was to really immerse and engage yourself in the game as it unfolds.

I learned to keep score from my dad. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is the only good way to learn. It's a skill that must be learned from your father.

I taught Jared to do it a few years ago, though it isn't something he has practiced much, so he's probably a little rusty. But given a scorecard and a pencil, he could get by.

Anyway, like I said in the headline, this isn't a post about baseball. This is a post about me lamenting the slow death of yet another great American tradition.

I generally get bored when people talk about sinking moral values and the fall of Western Civilization as represented by the loss of some old-fashioned habit or pastime.

Yet here I am doing exactly that. Guilty of hypocrisy as charged, your honor.

I guess the fact that most people don't keep score anymore shouldn't have much of an effect on me. If I want to do it myself, I still can.

But finding fewer and fewer people in the stands with their scorecards brings home to me the reality of baseball's declining popularity. It used to be the American Sport. Now it's largely The Old Person's Sport.

Baseball is slow. Or at least it's slow compared to football, basketball and hockey. It's a game of strategy and thought. Yes, a certain amount of pandering and posturing has infected baseball in recent years, but for the most part, it's still a very 19th- and 20th-century game.

I love all sports, don't get me wrong. But to quote Mike Tyson, if baseball "fades into Bolivian," it will mean a large part of our culture has gone out with it.

And I'm pretty sure I hate that. Or at least I dislike it intensely, which is just about all the emotion I can muster these days.

Is this what it's like to get old? First your music goes out of style. Then the clothes you wear. Then the people you saw as vibrant adults growing up start to go away. Then it starts happening to your generation.

Somewhere in there is also the decline and fall of the things you thought were eternal. Like baseball.

Your own mortality looks you square in the face and laughs.

And the only way you know to fight back is to grab a scorecard and a pencil and take in a ball game on a warm summer afternoon.

Just remember, it's a backwards "K" when the batter strikes out looking. A regular "K" when he goes down swinging. The rest is pretty easy to figure out.

Four relatively easy things you can do to improve your writing

I don't claim to be Ernest Hemingway (or Ernest Borgnine, for that matter), but I can do a passable imitation of a competent writer.

Writing comes fairly easily to me. Many, many people are better at it than I am, while many others are worse. I'm not sure if that's enough to convince you that I'm an authority, but I'm hoping it's enough to convince you at least to stick around for a few hundred more words.

Looking to become a better writer? There are lots of things you can do. Some are difficult to learn, others are not. The following four items fall into the "not" category:

Write Like You Talk

You may have heard this before, and that's because it works. If you're confident in your ability to express thoughts and ideas orally, then your writing should merely be an extension of that. Writing in your own "voice" is generally more effective and certainly more authentic than trying to sound like someone you're not. 

For what it's worth, this tip reminds me of the excellent "Writes Like She Talks" blog maintained by Jill Miller Zimon. The blog itself and the associated blogroll of links to other blogs are both worth your time.

Try Not to Repeat a Word Right After You've Used It

Like I said, these are "relatively easy things." Nothing complex here. If you use a certain word in, say, the first sentence of a paragraph, you probably don't want to use it again in the second. Especially if it's an adjective or another distinctive word, the use of which will stand out in the reader's mind and quite possibly distract him/her. You want the reader focusing on your thoughts, not on your word usage.

Grey Blocks of Text Are Your Enemy

One of the greatest writing tips I ever received came from Joe Magill, a guy who served as one of my track coaches in high school and later was a colleague in The News-Herald sports department.

One time after I had written what I thought was a particularly engaging feature story, Joe called me over to his computer screen. First he showed me my article, then he showed me one he had just written. He asked what the difference was between the two, visually speaking. I immediately noticed that his story had lots of short paragraphs, while mine had relatively few and noticeably longer paragraphs.

Readers are subconsciously turned off by paragraphs that look like they require work to get through. Online writing, in particular, demands a short, punchy style. No long, plodding sentences or paragraphs. Make them short, and hit the "enter" key often.

Don't Worry, You Can Go Back and Edit It Later

A lot of people don't like writing because their first drafts aren't pristine and perfect. Here's a hint: Nobody's first drafts are pristine and perfect.

The important thing when you're writing something is first to get your thoughts down on paper (or computer screen), and then to worry about structure, sentence flow and the like. Unless you're writing a front-page story for tomorrow's New York Times, in which case you certainly wouldn't need me telling you how to write, you'll have time to revise your masterpiece.

So don't let your quest for immediate Pulitzer Prize-winning copy keep you from finishing. Plow through that first draft and then go back and see where things stand. It will be OK, trust me.

Assessing the decision to have five kids

A few times in the history of this blog, I've written about the subject of large families.

How you define "large family" is obviously subjective, but in this day and age, I think anything more than three kids qualifies.

Forty years ago when I was growing up in suburban Cleveland? You would had to have had six kids or more to get into the Big Family Club.

Of course, I grew up surrounded by large Italian and Irish Catholic families, some of which had seven, eight, nine or more children. So my standards in this department may be a little high.

But I think we can agree that nowadays, having a big brood is a lot less common.

I know this because when someone asks me my kids' ages and I rattle them off (currently 19, 16, 14, 12 and 7), you can see them processing this information for a good three seconds. Then their eyes get a little wide and they say, "You have five kids?"

People with lots of kids are used to this, and as I've said before, I personally know four or five families with more offspring than us.

One is headed up by Brian and Laura, my wife's cousins. They have 10, four of whom were adopted from Liberia. They're one of the few families we can point to and say, "What, are they crazy?"

But no matter how you look at it, five children still puts us pretty high on the family size curve.

Interestingly, we never consciously made the decision to have a certain number of kids. Terry is the youngest of three in her family and I'm the youngest of four, so I guess we figured three or four was a pretty good target. Or at least a range we were both used to.

So we had four kids in pretty quick succession (just under 6 1/2 years). We spent the years from 2000 through 2005 as a family of six, carting around diaper bags, car seats, and all of the paraphernalia associated with having multiple small children.

Sometime in 2005, with Terry having turned 36 and me trailing close behind at 35, we decided that one more kid would be right for us. I don't remember when we reached this decision nor how, but we did.

And so, after a slight delay in Terry getting pregnant (something to which we weren't at all accustomed), we found ourselves expecting a fifth and final time. Little Jack came along at the end of January 2006, and soon after I gladly made the trek to the urologist's office to ensure there wouldn't be a Little Tennant #6.

Did we make the right decision?

Of course I'm going to say we did. To say otherwise would imply that I wish Jack had never come along, and that couldn't be farther from the truth. I love that little guy and am so glad he came into our lives.

But Terry often says that Jack's birth pushed her permanently over the edge into Perpetually Exhausted Mode. Not that having four kids was easy, but there's a big difference between being in your mid-30s and having four and approaching your mid-40s with five.

And it takes a concerted effort to arrange my schedule such that I get to spend time with all of them on a consistent basis. I wish I did a better job of it, but I do try.

Financially, you stop worrying about the long-term reality of helping to pay for five college educations and instead just put your head down and take it one day and one dollar at a time. There's really nothing else you can do.

Eventually, of course, we'll get through this. And in the meantime we get to make some awesome memories. Our house is often loud, messy and confusingly chaotic.

And if I'm being honest, I'll tell you I wouldn't have it any other way.

Though I gotta say, the monthly water bill alone is killing me.

I stopped understanding rap about the time of Run DMC

I just took a look at the Billboard "Hot 100" pop chart.

Do you know the last time I looked at the Hot 100? It had to have been 1988 or so. And I saw it in glossy print format, rather than finding it on the Internet like I did 30 seconds ago.

This, you understand, was back when I read Billboard. I think I had a subscription for awhile.

A subscription to a print publication. How cute!

Back then, I knew every artist and every song on the charts. Perhaps stunningly, I just realized I'm familiar with nine of the 10 songs on the current chart, and I'm actually rather proud of myself for that.

Of course, the only reason I know any of these modern groups is because I have teen-aged children. We listen to "their" music when we're in the car, which is why I'm acquainted with Imagine Dragons and can confidently say that Selena Gomez is famous for something other than being on the Disney Channel.

My interest in pop music waned quickly in the early 90s when grunge burst onto the scene. In retrospect, I actually like grunge. But at the time it seemed like a wild departure from the 80s New Wave music I had loved for so long.

And as far as I was concerned, the 90s didn't get much better as the decade progressed, musically speaking. After awhile it all sounded like the same four distorted guitar chords and/or tired R&B artists over and over, so I tuned out.

Only when my kids started getting old enough to have an interest in pop culture did I return to the modern music scene, and I have to tell you it's not that bad.

There's a lot of stuff being played on Top 40 radio today that interests me. (NOTE: I have no idea whether "Top 40 radio" means anything anymore, but it's a phrase I understand so I'm going to use it.)

There's also a lot of stuff I think is just rhythmic noise, but that's only because I'm middle-aged and I'm required by law to complain at least a bit about these darned kids and their loud music.

The music that totally lost me by the late 80s was rap. I liked a lot of rap in the 80s, or at least as much rap as a pasty white suburban kid was supposed to like.

I liked Run DMC the best. They were talented. And they were funny. And they didn't rap about shooting policemen in the head. That seemed pretty non-threatening to white people like me.

Even more Caucasian-friendly was D.J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Jeff, incidentally, became the Andrew Ridgeley of the rap scene when Will Smith emerged as a star. I felt bad for him.

But I enjoyed the hits he and Will cranked out for awhile, including "Parents Just Don't Understand" and "I Think I Can Beat Mike Tyson." Again, no cop-killing, no N-word, no angry bass-thumping and screaming. I could semi-relate.

But then came NWA and Ice-T and Ice Cube and Iced Coffee and whatnot, and the whole genre just flew off in a direction that didn't interest me in the least. So I stopped paying attention.

Nowadays two or three pop songs come out every year that intrigue me enough to download them from iTunes, and that's about it. The rest of the stuff on the radio is OK and no more than that for me, so I listen to a lot of Duran Duran and Men at Work and Paul Simon and The Fixx and whatever else comes up on my "Pathetic Old Guy" iPod playlist.

At one time or another, all of those groups were played regularly on Top 40 radio. And that, as far as you kids know, is saying something.

You achieved your personal goal? Good. Here's what the rest of your life looks like...

You know how people are jaded about New Year's resolutions and they're almost always represented as promises to yourself you'll never actually keep?

I realize this really is the nature of New Year's resolutions most of the time.

But occasionally, people do achieve what they set out to do. Sometimes, that resolution made on Jan. 1st is reality by July 1st.

The question at that point is, now what?

I'm proud to say I'm living proof that a goal set during the holidays is actually attainable. And, I hope, sustainable.

As many know, I've lost more than 40 pounds since the beginning of December 2012. I've done it through Weight Watchers, a system I always say may not be for everyone (what system is for everyone?), but it's as darned close to universally successful as I've seen.

I started my weight loss journey on Dec. 1st, which I guess technically means it wasn't a "New Year's" resolution. But close enough for purposes of this discussion.

Since I hit my goal weight in late March, I've been tinkering with the number of points (read: calories) I should consume each day to maintain a healthy weight. I actually dropped as low as 13 pounds under my goal, but have since put some of the weight back on (intentionally) and now sit very comfortably in the 175- to 180-pound range.

As a bit of a tangent, I should note here that that still puts me, medically speaking, just into the "overweight" range in terms of body-mass index. As a not-quite-5-foot-10-inch male, I shouldn't be any more than 174 pounds, according to the actuarial charts. But even my doctor thinks the weight I should maintain is 185, so I think we can safely ignore the charts in some cases.

Anyway, now that I've settled pretty well at a weight I can maintain without too much in the way of strenuous effort, the question again is, now what?

How do you motivate yourself once you've hit the promised land and have moved on with the rest of your life?

Because let's face it: You can't obsess about your weight or whatever your personal goal may be indefinitely. You have too many other things going on that demand your time and attention.

So how do you maintain what you worked so hard to achieve?

In the case of the weight loss, and with Weight Watchers specifically, there comes a time when the "hey, you look great!" comments sort of fade away. Because the New You is really no longer the New You, but rather the "Actual You." People's expectations of your appearance adjust to accommodate that new body. And if they comment on your weight again, it's more likely it will be along the lines of, "Hey, have you put some of that weight back on?"

So living off of the praise and congratulations that come with noticeable weight loss isn't an option. Instead you have to learn to continually reward and motivate yourself.

Maintaining that healthy weight is still work, even if you're not focusing on it seven days a week. Hard work deserves recognition and praise. And since no one else is likely to do it anymore, you need to supply that recognition and praise yourself.

It's the same with any goal, really. Once you achieve it, and you work hard to maintain it, you still need to pat yourself on the back from time to time. Reward yourself in whatever way works for you, whether it's an extra (reasonably sized!) slice of cake or a new pair or pants or whatever floats your boat.

And don't forget to look continually at the big picture. Even if others aren't as impressed as they once were with what you've accomplished, you shouldn't feel bad about looking at yourself that way. You're awesome, so tell yourself that. What you achieved was significant, and you should treat it as significant.

If you quit smoking, don't forget how you used to feel (and smell). And take a moment to reflect on how you feel now. Quite a difference, isn't it? Celebrate that. Continually.

A lot of people who quit smoking eventually relapse. And even more people who lose weight put it back on (I've been one). Every day you maintain that healthier version of you is a victory. Don't forget that.

Also, keep something around that reminds you of what motivated you to change in the first place. It could be a picture of your messy office before you became organized. Or an old shirt that's now five sizes too large you never want to fit into again. Or something that reminds you of the way you used to handle tough situations before you learned how to deal with stress.

Whatever it is, the idea is to remember how far you've come since you decided to change for the better. Because the farther we come, the less likely we are to allow ourselves to go back.

Or at least that's what I hope. I honestly don't want to see "XL" on the tag of any article of clothing I wear ever again...

Things I can and can't do

I can type fast.

I can't do a cartwheel.

I can punctuate a sentence.

I can't fix a string trimmer.

I can play the saxophone.

I can't sing harmony parts.

I can remember obscure dates and facts.

I can't do Sudoku.

I can make a paper airplane.

I can't tread water for very long.

I can tell you the starting lineup for almost any Cleveland Indians team from 1979 to the present.

I can't do the same with the Cleveland Browns.

I can wash the dishes and clean up a kitchen with frightening thoroughness.

I can't juggle.

I can throw food up in the air and catch it in my mouth almost every time.

I can't ice skate backwards.

I can remember exactly what my elementary school smelled like.

I can't remember what I had for lunch two days ago.

I can conjugate certain verbs in English, French and Latin.

I can't build even the most basic of treehouses.

I can go for days on end with little sleep.

I can't go more than two hours without a snack.

I can vividly see old Jerry Lewis Labor Day MDA Telethons in my head.

I can't picture the guy who helped me at Subway yesterday.

I can count to 10 in, I think, four different languages (English, French, Spanish and Japanese).

I can't figure out how the toilet really works.

I can teach a child to dribble a soccer ball in five minutes.

I can't teach that same child how to consistently clean up after himself.

I can come up with relatively lame lists and pass them off as blog posts.

I can't justify why I do that.

Did I ever tell you about the time my wife dumped me? Twice?

I have been in love with the same woman for 27 years.

I often say this is one of my greatest accomplishments, but I don't know that you could actually classify it as an accomplishment.

"Accomplishment," to me, signifies conscious effort. And I didn't make a conscious effort to fall in love with Terry. It just sort of happened when I was 16 years old. And it has lasted ever since. So I'm not sure you can say that being in love with someone is an "accomplishment."

Now, staying together with them? Nurturing that relationship? Strengthening your bond? Those take effort. Those are accomplishments. But actually being in love? I don't think I had much to do with that. That was God's work, and He did a very nice job of it, if I may say so.

Terry and I met when I was a sophomore in high school. She was stunningly pretty. I was passable in the looks department. To the point that you could take me out in public and not be overly embarrassed to be seen with me.

After less than a year of dating, I knew I loved her.

And looking back, I was right about that.

You don't often know what love really is when you're 16 or 17 years old, but for whatever reason, I did. What I felt for her then was as genuine as what I feel for her now.

But it almost fell apart. Twice, actually.

Terry dumped me two times during high school. Once was between my junior and senior year in the summer of 1987. I don't remember much about that particular break-up, other than that it mercifully didn't last very long.

But the second time was the following summer after I had graduated. I think it only lasted three weeks or so, but I'm not kidding you when I say they were the worst three weeks of my life.

I was such a lost soul. I honestly couldn't fathom how I was supposed to go on without her. So I just kind of existed. I hadn't yet started college, nor did I have a job at the time. So I existed. Miserably.

My mom remembers. She remembers me staying up late at night listening to sad music and just laying in my bed. Occasionally I would call Terry. And most of the time she would tell me I had to stop calling her.

At one point she told me I needed to find someone else to be with, that it would be good for me. So I gave it a try. I went out a few times with a very pretty and smart girl.

But Terry (this is my favorite part of the story) didn't like that. I had started my job at The News-Herald during our break-up period, and one night I came out of work to find a rose and a nice card from her tucked under the windshield wipers of my 1979 Chevy Chevette.

I drove straight to Terry's house.

We got back together for good that night.

A few months later, when we were both 19, we got engaged. Less than four years after that, we were married. To the extent that I had anything to do with making this beautiful relationship last, I guess that is one of my greatest accomplishments.

But I realized the other night that there's also a potential dark side to all of this. Well, not a "dark" side, really, but there is a risk.

I have put everything into being with this woman. Everything I am is wrapped up in her. If something were to happen to her, I would be a lost soul again.

And knowing that is scary. I don't want to go back to that horrible feeling again. But the fact is, I just might have to. One day, anyway.

The reality of our collective situation as humans is that we have an expiration date. Whatever we build in this life simply ain't going to last forever, and that includes romantic bonds cemented by red roses left on Chevy Chevettes.

An extremely selfish part of me hopes that I'm the one to die first, if only so I don't have to go through that dark time again. And I have biology on my side, what with woman living longer on average than men.

But there's nothing to be gained by having these morbid thoughts, so I try to shut them out.

Sometimes at night just before I fall asleep, I turn my head toward her side of the bed and try to make out her face in the darkness. Often I can. Sometimes I can't.

No matter, though. I can always see her in my mind.

Sometimes when I picture her it's the current mom-of-five Terry. Other times it's when-we-just-got-married Terry. And occasionally it's 16-year-old Terry.

Every one of them is beautiful. And every one of them is mine.

Then, and only then, do I drift off to sleep, content in the knowledge that whatever else may eventually happen, the girl I loved in 1986 is still laying next to me.

Twenty-seven years of that is worth just about any price, to tell you the truth.

This is not the post where I inspire you to achieve your life goals

Actually it's not really a depressing post today as far as you're concerned. But it sort of is for me.

Here's my problem:

After graduating from John Carroll University in 1992 with a bachelor's degree in English and history, I stopped going to school. My dad told me I should stick it out and get a Master's degree, but I was tired of working full time AND attending college full time, which I had spent the previous couple of years doing.

So I decided a B.A. was good enough and I stopped there. At the time I was a sports writer at The News-Herald in Willoughby, Ohio, and my career path was pretty well laid out for me: Work my way up the journalistic ladder and eventually become a beat writer covering a Cleveland professional sports team.

It was that simple. That was my goal, and one certainly didn't need a Master's degree to get there.

So like I said, I stopped the whole school thing. And I kept on sports writing for four more years, at which point I realized three things:

• Sports happen at night, and it's difficult to raise a family and participate in kids' activities when you have to be at work every evening.
• You're never exactly going to be independently wealthy as a sports writer.
• Eventually the industry was going to change, and there was no guarantee of long-term job security in sports writing (20 years later, it turns out I was actually right about this one)

So I moved away from sports writing and got into technical writing, then trade journalism, and eventually marketing and public relations.

And now, two decades down the line, I desperately wish I had a Master's degree.

Specifically, I'd like a Master's of Business Administration (MBA) to help make up for the fact that I never studied business in any formal way.

And because obtaining a graduate degree would be extremely personally satisfying to me.

Happily, my employer has an excellent tuition reimbursement plan. Probably the best one I've come across. I almost wouldn't have to pay a dime for an MBA.

But what my employer can't give me, what I can't even give myself, is time.

And time, you see, is the problem here.

I'm barely two months into my job, but already I can see that it's always going to be fairly time-consuming. I enjoy and appreciate the position, don't get me wrong. But things aren't ever really going to calm down when it comes to the day-to-day chaos.

Even if you only take one MBA course per semester, you still need considerable time to attend class, study, get through your reading and homework, work on group projects, etc.

In addition to having a crazy job, I also have a wife and five kids. They deserve a significant amount of my time and attention, and I want to give it to them.

The math just doesn't work out.

If I'm getting anything close to the proper amount of sleep, exercising, doing my job well, and staying closely connected with my family, that pretty well accounts for a 24-hour day right there.

Unless we figure out a way to move to 28-hour days, I'm in trouble here.

Yet many people at work are encouraging me to go for it and get after that MBA. Which is nice, but none of them has offered me that gift of time. Nor do many really seem to understand the stage of life I'm in.

So it appears I'm stuck.

The obvious solution - the only solution, I suppose - is to set this particular goal aside and come back to it someday when the kids are older.

And I may just go that route. But I could really use the knowledge and experience you gain in an MBA program in the next few years. It will still be personally satisfying if I get the degree in my 50s, but I feel like it won't help me as much professionally if I wait that long.

So....yeah.

At this point I invite you to do one of three things:

(a) Tell me to suck it up and quit whining about my first-world problems, something with which I can't disagree.

(b) Tell me how you personally overcame similar obstacles and got a degree or achieved some other life goal, thus inspiring me to get out there and reach for the stars or whatever.

(c) Ignore this post completely and move on with your day, which honestly is probably the approach I would take if I were you.

Because, really, who has the time for that?

(NOTE: Since I wrote this, I came across an excellent post from my friend, former colleague and blogger extraordinaire Tara Pringle Jefferson with practical tips on balancing work, school and family. So it CAN be done. Hopefully one doesn't need to be as awesome as Tara to pull it off, though...)

Ranking the days of the week

#7 - Tuesday
Tuesday is the worst day, hands down. Maybe because it lacks an identity. It's not only the middle of the work week, it's early in the middle of the work week. Few good things happen on Tuesdays, as far as I'm concerned.

#6 - Thursday
"I could never get the hang of Thursdays," says Arthur Dent in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. And I agree. Some people choose to go out and party on Thursday nights. I don't even go out and party on Saturday nights, so that's definitely not for me. Thursday lures you in with, "Hey, the weekend is right around the corner!" But it's not, because Thursday ends and you still haven't arrived at the weekend. You can't fool me, Thursday, you temptress.

#5 - Monday
This is higher than most people would slot Monday on any day-of-the-week ranking list. But Mondays do have some redeeming value. They always hold out the promise of a solid, enjoyable week ahead, and I always start them well. Sometimes they really are the vanguard of a happy five days. But sometimes they aren't. So you never know what you're going to get with Monday, which is why I can't trust it with a ranking any higher than #5.

#4 - Sunday
It is with a guilty conscience that I rank Sunday in the middle, because Sunday is when we go to church and that's supposed to be the highlight of my week. Sunday morning definitely ranks right up there for me, but Sunday afternoon and Sunday evening? All I do is think about my responsibilities and appointments for the week to come, which really defeats the purpose of a weekend. Sunday is lucky I put it as high as #4 on this list.

#3 - Wednesday
This Geico commercial about a camel on Hump Day makes me laugh. And that's all I really need to say about Wednesdays.

#2 - Saturday
I realize Saturday is the calendar equivalent of Nirvana for most people, and I like it, too. But you know what happens to me around 6 p.m. every Saturday? I start thinking, "Oh man, the weekend is already mostly over and I haven't accomplished anything. And tomorrow is Sunday, which means I have to spend it getting ready for Monday." *SIGH*." It's a sad, lonely existence I lead, really.

#1 - Friday
I would never force you to listen to that horrible "Friday" song by Rebecca Black, but I do offer the option of a link, should you choose to subject yourself to it. Fridays are life-defining for me. I am, for whatever reason, hugely productive at work on Fridays. I enjoy almost every Friday night one way or another. And my standards have fallen so far that I actually thrive on the experience of wearing jeans to work on "Casual Fridays." There is virtually no downside to Fridays, which is why I crown it The Champ among days of the week. For what that's worth.

Four reasons you should have kids

You will learn a love you didn't even know existed

It's different from the way you love your spouse. Not better, not more intense, just different. Your care and concern for these little humans will be, at times, all-consuming. You think you understand this love before you become a parent, but you don't. It starts the minute that child is born and continues on forever. That's a good thing, because there will also be times when you want to kill the little brat (which, it turns out, is illegal in most states).

Two words: Tax deduction

I hate to be so blunt about it, but man, having five kids definitely has its tax advantages. Our tax code is written in a way that encourages you to procreate. So go ahead and Dugger it up! That tax refund check will be huge! Of course, you'll blow the whole thing on diapers and sippy cups, but the folks at Costco will love to see you coming.

Men only: Free food in the maternity ward refrigerator

I believe it's the policy in most hospitals (at least it was in the two hospitals where my kids were born) to provide a refrigerator stocked with food and drink for expectant fathers to consume while their wives are in labor. All of this stuff is absolutely free. I'm all about free stuff, especially edible free stuff. But you must remember to down it all before you get back to your wife's room. She can't eat while in labor, and she will despise you if she sees food. And pregnant women have superhuman strength. You don't want to mess with them.

You can perform incredible feats of sleep deprivation!

This doesn't necessarily apply to all parents. Some people have babies who sleep through the night right from the get-go. Our first few babies were like this, and I often wondered, "What exactly is it that people always complain about when it comes to babies? They sleep at night just like us. Piece of cake!" Then Melanie came along and she took a good 18 months to sleep through the wee hours consistently. And Jack had his share of problems mastering this skill, as well. It's not fun. BUT...you find yourself accomplishing stuff on 45 minutes of sleep you never thought possible. There's a certain sense of grim pride in this. Trust me, you'll learn to embrace it.

Is 'loving' your job overrated? Or even realistic?

Today begins my eighth week of employment at Vitamix (makers of the best darned blenders in the world, I'll have you know).

I'm at that stage at which everyone asks, "So, how do you like your new job?" To which I almost invariably reply, "I love it."

Which is true. Or at least it's true insofar as I really do enjoy working there.

But do I "love" it? I don't think so. "Love" is a very strong word. There is an extremely limited number of people and things in the world that I genuinely "love."

In that sense, then, I have never had a job that I loved.

Especially if, by "love," you mean that the job completes or defines me in some way. I don't want to be defined by my work.

The real question may actually be, "If financial circumstances didn't force you to work, would you still keep your job?"

And the answer to that, for me, is an emphatic "no." This is nothing at against the wonderful Vita-Mix Corp. (for some reason we add the hyphen when referring to the company's full, legal name). It's just that I've never had a job I would have done for free or if I had been independently wealthy.

Now, I don't claim that my experience and perspective are in any way universal. There are undoubtedly people who "love" their jobs by any definition of the word.

But what percentage of the population do they really comprise? 5%? 10%? 20%? I can't believe it's any more than that.

You hear all the time that if you love what you do, it will never seem like "work." And I have to tell you, my job at Vitamix is a great one. It's challenging, engaging, interesting, and ever-changing. And Vitamix itself is probably the best place I've ever worked in terms of benefits, recognition, interesting people, and adherence to goals and values in which I strongly believe.

But again, I "work" there. It's a job. And if I won $50 million in the lottery today, you can be sure I would turn in my notice tomorrow.

Do others not feel this way? I'm certainly willing to believe some don't, but that's my perspective.

I would be interested in hearing yours.