I would have been fine with a house full of daughters, but sons are nice, too

My wife birthed five babies, and we didn't find out the gender of any of them before they were born.

Let me say three things about that:

(1) Just because we did it that way doesn't I mean I think anyone else has to do it that way. It was our choice for us. Your choice may be different, which is totally fine. Why do some people feel that their way is always The Right Way and that everyone must follow their lead? Or, conversely, that if someone makes a choice different from theirs, that's automatically a threat or a challenge to them? Seriously, this irritates me. In most cases for most things, it's OK that we can make different choices and co-exist. There doesn't have to be a "right" and a "wrong." Can we all agree on that?

(2) As I've often acknowledged, my gender guess was wrong every single time. I went 0 for 5 in my kid gender predictions, which is just staggering to me. That's like flipping a coin five times and  not calling it correctly even once. It's not impossible, I realize, and may be even more probable than I think, but still...how did I not get it right just one time?

(3) We had two girls before we had our first boy, and while I love my sons, I would have been fine with a house full of daughters.

It turns out that having sons is great and I love it, but by Baby #3, I was comfortable with all aspects of having daughters. Well, "all aspects" meaning those things pertaining to having daughters ages 4 and almost 2, which is how old Elissa and Chloe were when Jared was born. They're relatively uncomplicated at that age and I felt I had reached a certain level of understanding with them.

For example, I could change a girl's diaper in seconds. I had a pattern down. A system, if you will. Then suddenly God threw a boy into the mix and...wow. My wipey technique had to change drastically.

You can count on one hand the number of places on a baby girl where poop is likely to be found. But a boy? Suddenly there were folds on top of folds, and my Boy Diaper Changing Time ended up being roughly double what my Girl Diaper Changing Time was. It was traumatic at first.

Then there were girl clothes and hair ribbons and stuff. I learned how they all worked, and by the third kid I was pretty confident with them. Then along comes a male child and I had a whole set of new stuff to learn. It wasn't hard, but again, it took me out of my Kid Comfort Zone.

I also liked the idea that, when the girls became teenagers, I could refer them to their mother for all questions that might be characterized as tricky, hair-raising, or feminine hygiene-related. But with boys, I was suddenly going to be the one with the answers. That was alarming.

In the end, I love having kids of both sexes. It gives you a whole new perspective on people, personalities and parenting. And it contributes greatly to what is already a fairly high level of chaos in my house, which I honestly wouldn't trade for anything.

But had God decided to bless me with five daughters, you would not hear me complaining. Daughters are, broadly speaking, funny, considerate, loving and just a delight to have around the house. I love being a father of girls.

Boys, however, also have their advantages. Again, speaking very generally here and no doubt stereotyping, boys tend to be less emotional, less dramatic, and more apt to talk about sports. A lot of girls are like that, too, but again, I'm generalizing. And there's something to be said for having that element in your life when you're a dad.

In the end, we all accept whatever nature gives us in terms of kid gender, but I think it's better if we accept it willingly, with a smile on our collective parenting faces. You may want that first kid to be a certain sex, but it's going to be what it's going to be and you're charged with raising it no matter what, so just roll with it, baby.

Also, you first-time parents should feel free to see me if you want a diaper-changing lesson. After three girls, two boys and thousands of diapers, I'm telling you, I'm a virtuoso.

New refrigerator = new life

You don't realize how much your major kitchen appliances shape your existence until you buy a new one.

We recently purchased a new refrigerator and I'm still getting used to it. I interact with the refrigerator several times a day, and when the contents get rearranged, it throws me off.

"Wait, where do we keep the cheese now? And why are my apples way over here? This shelf moves? And this one doesn't? Why would they design it like that? How do you make it spit out ice cubes instead of water?"

And so on. My list of questions and sundry annoyances grows daily, but there's no denying it's a beautiful refrigerator. It's black. Very black. None more black.

My wife has decided that that's the direction in which all of our kitchen appliances are going: black. Which is fine by me. I just need to keep track of where she puts the yogurt now. And the fact that our freezer is now on the bottom rather on the side. That's world-changing, by the way. I won't get used to that for at least three years (you think I'm kidding).

A few years ago we bought a dishwasher from a guy named Flint Parker. That's an absolutely true story. "Flint Parker" should be rasslin' dogies out west, not selling overpriced appliances to suburban white people.

But sell appliances is what Flint Parker does, and he sold us an expensive one. I still love it, but it causes Terry no end of grief because she's constantly having to pull bits of food out of the spray arm nozzles so that our expensive dishwasher will actually, you know, wash dishes.

I've finally gotten used to the space-age, touch-sensitive buttons on the door of our dishwasher, which means it's about time for Terry to buy a new one. A cardinal rule in this house is that Daddy is never to be comfortable with any of the living arrangements. Once I grow accustomed to something, the family switches it on me. I can't keep up, and I think this amuses them. I'm like a walking psychology experiment to these people.

Anyway, apart from the refrigerator and the dishwasher, the only other really "major" kitchen appliance is the stove, and I almost never use it. I'll boil water occasionally, and once a decade I'll bake something, but really, Terry is free to swap that out whenever she likes. It's the one thing that won't alter my existence much at all.

But the Keurig? And the Vitamix? Those are staples. Don't mess with those. I need some consistency in my life. And besides, I'm still too busy trying to figure out where we keep the salad dressing now.

Why I don't use Facebook (or this blog) for political and religious debates

I like my daily interactions on Facebook because, for the most part, they're fun. I enjoy them.

What I'm not so much into on Facebook are arguments over politics and religion, insulting elected officials (whoever they may be and whatever party they may represent), and just generally adding to the unpleasantness of the world.

So I tend to keep Facebook light. And Twitter, too, for that matter. Occasionally I'll express an opinion, because I do have them. But mostly, I'm not looking for anything much deeper than jokes and here's-what's-happening-in-my-life updates from friends on social media.

That said, I have no problem if you ARE someone who wants to argue online. That's totally your right, and I don't think there's anything wrong with it. It's just not something for me.

That's OK, right? We can agree to use these social platforms for different reasons. Just because I don't use them the same way as you doesn't mean that:

(A) I'm not passionate or serious

(B) I'm unable to take sides on major issues

(C) I'm embarrassed about my opinions or my faith

That last point bears some elaboration. I am a Christian. I attend church virtually every week not because I'm any better than you, but for the same reason that a sick person goes to the doctor. I need to be there. So far this year I've managed to read the Bible every day. I feel like I'm much better off for having done so, but I'm a heck of a long way from perfect.

I am not ashamed to say that I follow Jesus Christ. And that I believe him  to have been (or more accurately to be, present tense) the Son of God. And that I believe him when he says that he is the way, the truth and the life.

As a Christian, I am called upon to spread the Gospel message, and I try to do that in private interactions. In conversations I have with friends and family. In the way I act. I don't always live up to the standard I should, but I do try.

I choose not to use Facebook as the stage from which I preach. I use it for fun and jokes, and occasionally to lament the sad fact that I am a Cleveland Browns fan.

If Facebook is your religious or political stage, again, that's cool. More power to you. But it's not mine. And while I tend to care way too much about what others think of me, I'm fine if you don't agree with my philosophy. I hope you do, but it's OK if you don't.

Maybe I'm wrong about this, at least from the standpoint of faith. Maybe I'm wasting an opportunity to "let my light shine" by not expressing myself on certain matters via social media. I don't know. But if I am, I definitely know one thing:

It's entirely Obama's fault.

And suddenly your oldest child is an adult by almost any legal definition...

Tomorrow, my daughter Elissa, the person through whom I learned to change a diaper, make a ponytail, and tolerate hours of "Winnie the Pooh" videos, turns 21 years old.

I won't get into how mind-blowing this is, because a billion people before me have tried – with varying degrees of success – to express what it means when a person you raised from fetus-hood to some semblance of young adulthood is suddenly on the verge of becoming an honest-to-goodness, unequivocal grown-up.

But I will say that I'm having a hard time getting my arms around it. It's not that I don't accept it (it's actually kind of cool). It's just that it doesn't seem possible.

You know that someday your child is going to grow up. They will grow older and maybe get married and have kids of their own. But in those early years when you're exhausted just caring for them and keeping them alive, the concept is misty and theoretical. Your brain knows it's going to happen, but your heart doesn't.

Yet here we are, just 24 hours before she can go down to the store and buy a bottle of Mad Dog and drink herself silly until she vomits in a legitimate, legally compliant manner. (NOTE: I will assume that is not how she'll spend her birthday.)

And the whole cliche about time going way too fast becomes real and breathtaking and maybe a little bit painful, too.

I don't see Elissa a lot these days. She lives 20 minutes away on her college campus, and our lives are both filled with commitments and people and long hours of work. I love when I come home and she's there, though, and I really love when it's winter break and she's with us for an entire month. But those times are getting fewer and further between.

I don't post about her on Facebook as much as I used to because she's not doing the things her four younger siblings are doing that are easy to brag about: playing soccer or winning an award at school or playing a solo on her oboe (she used to play oboe...I have the credit card receipts from years of private lessons to prove it).

Instead, she's doing what adults do. She's studying and planning and beginning the process of carving out a niche for herself in the world. She's doing exactly what we as parents want for our children: She's proving that we prepared her well enough to launch herself into the world with some degree of competence and understanding.

And while she doubts herself constantly, I can tell you she's doing it beautifully. I'm so proud of her it hurts. I'm so proud of her I can't type this sentence without getting misty-eyed. I'm so proud of her and what she's becoming.

And I guess that's my job now. I give advice when asked. I help when I can. And I stand back and beam with pride while Elissa goes about the business of being whatever Elissa is going to turn out to be.

It's a role I always knew I would have to fill. I just didn't realize it would come so soon.

I can't figure out the light switches in our house

I've been living in the same house for almost 12 years, but in some ways it still seems new to me.

Like the smell of the basement bathroom, for instance. It's not used that often, and the door is generally closed, so it maintains a certain "new" smell.

And almost the entire upstairs area is relatively unfamiliar to me. All four bedrooms belong to various kids, so the only time I generally go up there is to put Jack to sleep for the night. It's like it's part of my house, but at the same time it isn't.

Then there are the light switches. Altogether, I would estimate we have 300 light switches in our house. Not really, of course, but it seems that way to me. And my wife knows exactly what all of them do.

You probably would, too, if you lived here, because you are at least of average intelligence. I, on the other hand, am quite clearly brain damaged. For more than a decade I've been using the light switches, yet I can't quite tell you which light is controlled by any given switch.

Is that bad? It is, isn't it? I'm thinking it's indicative of some sort of brain defect. I should know, after an entire decade-plus, what each light switch does. But I don't.

The consequence of this is that when it's time to turn out the lights in, say, the living room, I flip a dozen different switches up and down until I hit the right combination. I might manage to darken the room, but at the same time I've turned on every external light we have.

My wife is amused by this, and she understandably can't fathom why this confuses me so much.

Even the three switches in our master bedroom puzzle me sometimes. Terry will ask me to turn on the ceiling fan, and I flip the left-most of the three switches, which does not appear to do anything and could – for all I know – have turned on the neighbors' bathroom light.

(NOTE: I just walked over to the light switches here in our room and flipped that left switch. Turns out it controls a light in the ceiling just outside our bedroom door. Who knew?)

Someday, when I've lost my faculties and I spend my days talking to house plants, you'll all be saying to one another, "Yeah, it all started with the light switches..."

Another year with Terry the Transformed

It's my wife's birthday today. As is always the case on her birthday, she is turning one year older than me.

She was born eight months before I was, so ever since I've known her (nearly 30 years now), she has been the one to "scout out" the next age ahead. She turns a certain number, and after a couple of months I ask her how it is. And invariably her answer is, "About the same as being <INSERT HER PREVIOUS AGE HERE.>"

In other words, just because the calendar turns another year doesn't necessarily mean you yourself are much different.

Of course, she also refuses to acknowledge that I'm younger than she is. When she turned 40, for example, she informed me that I was also 40. Which would have been fine, except that I was 39 at the time and wouldn't turn 40 until much later in the year.

This didn't matter to her. It never matters to her. Whatever age she happens to be, then that's the age I am, too, as far as she's concerned, birth certificates be damned.

This past year has been a momentous one for Terry, and for once it's not because she birthed another child. It was because she lost a significant amount of weight and she feels fantastic.

Everyone always remarks on how different she looks, because that's what happens when you lose weight. But as I've said more than once, I thought she looked beautiful before and I think she looks beautiful now, though I may be a bit biased.

What's different is how much happier she is. Weight loss is one thing, and it's a very important thing from a health standpoint. But it's also only the physical manifestation of something much deeper and more meaningful that happens inside a person.

Over the last year or two, Terry has started trying new things. New foods, new drinks, new experiences. Stuff that wouldn't have occurred to her to try before is suddenly a routine part of her life.

Like beer, for instance. I've always been the beer drinker in our relationship, and even then I probably average one a month, generally consumed when I'm at a party or some other social function. The smell of beer used to make her wretch. Now she drinks the stuff and loves it.

How does this happen? How does something go from vomit-inducing to mm-mm-good just like that? Of all the strange things that have resulted from Terry's Transformation, as I like to call it, the beer thing is the most bizarre.

In the end, what I'm most happy about is that Terry is finally taking time for Terry. As a mom of five (six if you count me), she has spent years thinking about and caring for everybody except Terry. So she's long overdue for a little me-focus. It's better for her and it's better for her family, because it makes her an all-around better person, mother and wife.

So I guess today I'm not celebrating the fact that my wife is yet again older than me – and make no mistake, regardless of what she says, she IS older than me – I'm celebrating the re-emergence of the joyous, exuberant person that has always been there, but who maybe got covered up a little by years of diapers, sippy cups, school projects and sleepless nights.

Happy birthday, hon. And welcome back.

McDonald's is good for at least one thing: Shamrock Shakes

I'm not a huge fan of McDonald's, mostly because once I realized how horribly unhealthy most of their food is, there was no longer much reason for me to go there. Other than their salads, there's not a lot of options on the menu that work for me.

But I spent a good number of years eating McDonald's food, especially when I was a kid. And with those memories comes a certain nostalgia, as embodied in the following awesome commercial from my childhood:

As nasty as they are, I always try to have at least one Shamrock Shake around St. Patrick's Day. There are 54 different ingredients in a Shamrock Shake, almost none of them to be found on the "good for you" list. But that doesn't detract from the fact that they taste great.

Or at least they do to me. I realize it's an acquired taste, and one most of us are probably better off not acquiring.

I do the same with McRib sandwiches, by the way. When McDonald's brings them back, I buy one. Again, they're nasty and unhealthy, and made from a substance that can only be described as "meat" in quotes. But I gotta have one. It's tradition.

So with St. Patty's Day now only hours away, I'll make the trek to Mickey-D's and buy a Shamrock Shake. And when I do, I'll raise a toast to you, my loyal and slightly off-balance blog readers. May the spirit of Uncle O'Grimacey always be with you!

I need to de-stress but am stressing out over how to do it

Having a family history of heart disease, I have gone to some lengths to try and lessen my risk of dying prematurely from coronary artery disease or similar ailments.

I eat fairly healthy.

I exercise.

I (try to) maintain a healthy weight.

I'm generally a happy person with a reliable network of social support around me.

Those are all boxes I can tick off  on the "prevent a heart attack" checklist.

But that list invariably includes a fifth item on which I fall short: Stress management.

Stress is a killer. Just ask any primary care doctor or cardiologist and they can probably give you examples of patients whose early demise can be traced back to allowing too much stress in their lives.

It's hard for me to say how stressed I am versus the average person. Like I said, I tend to be fairly positive, but I constantly worry about various aspects of my job and family life. Am I on top of everything? Am I doing what I'm supposed to do? How am I going to get everything done that's on my to-do list?

It's fair to say that I do register somewhere on the stress scale, at least enough to the point that managing that stress and its ill effects is something I should, um, worry about.

But how to do it? The options vary.

A lot of books and health blogs tell you to meditate, particularly in the morning. And I should probably try it. But I already get up way too early for my own tastes (4:45 a.m. most days), and even setting the alarm 15 minutes earlier is a deal-breaker for me. So finding time is a problem.

How about massage? Ugh. I know that many people – my wife chief among them – are big fans of massage. She even bought me a gift certificate for Christmas for a free massage from a friend of ours who is very skilled at it.

But...I don't know. I'm just not into having people not named Terry Tennant engage in anything resembling extended physical contact with me. Rather than relax me, I'm afraid massage will just cause me to tense up even worse. So I'm not sure there.

How about reiki? Not familiar with it? Go here for a quick explanation. My sister Debbie is a trained reiki practitioner, so I've got an "in" on this one. Reiki is a really cool Japanese technique that aids in stress reduction and relaxation, both of which I could obviously use. The only downside here, again, is time. Gotta find time to get together with Deb so she could do her reiki magic on me, a service for which I would be willing to pay her. But when? I don't know.

They also tell you that simple deep breathing helps, and I've tried it before. It does work, but it's difficult for me to get into the habit. And it's such an easy fix that part of me doesn't trust it does anything tangible, which just goes to show you I apparently have issues that go far beyond simple meditation or deep relaxation.

Ultimately, what I'll probably die from is a heart attack brought on by years of indecision over how to de-stress. That, in one sentence, describes the paradox of being me. The whole thing just stresses me out...

From snow shovel to lawn mower: The transition looms

You're reading this on March 11th or later, but I'm writing it on February 2nd, which of course is Groundhog Day.

(NOTE: I've been cranking these blog posts out at a prodigious rate this winter. I like being ahead of the game. Way, way, way ahead of the game. It makes me feel better about the whole enterprise.)

As I type, there is something like a foot of snow on the ground here in the Cleveland area, which is guaranteed to happen at least once every winter but generally occurs two or three times. We don't get as much snow as, say, Syracuse does, but we do tend to get more than Minneapolis or Chicago.

Which is why mid-March is such an interesting time in our part of the country. Depending on how quickly spring feels like coming, I am often able to put away the snow removal equipment by this point in the year. But some years, our worst blizzards hold off until the latter part of March and even early April.

It's all seemingly random, and we Northeast Ohioans just kind of roll with it. We start complaining well in advance of Valentine's Day, of course, but we put up with it as long as we have to because we obviously don't have much choice.

By this time of year, I'm itching to break out my lawn mower. I don't really like shoveling snow (in part because it screws up my morning routine), but cutting the grass has never been something I've minded all that much.

We have a decent-sized yard. Not huge, but spacious enough on three-quarters of an acre. We inherited a riding mower when we first moved into the house, but I was never a huge fan of it and didn't mourn when it broke down.

Instead I use a push mower. One with a drive system so that I'm not forced to push the entire weight of the machine around, but still a push mower that cuts only a two-foot swath at a time.

It typically takes me just over an hour to cut our entire yard, and what I love about it is that the results are immediate. I get to the end and then look back over a nice little field of green, uniformly trimmed grass blades that conveys the message, "Hey, this guy actually does at least a little something to take care of his yard. You should admire him."

My wife makes fun of me when it comes to lawn moving, and deservedly so. I plan entire weekends around cutting the grass and when I'll be able to do it, influenced by such factors as the weather and what else is on our schedule. We'll be out someplace and I will, without irony, say the words, "I can't wait to get home and mow the lawn."

It's one of those man things that most husbands do because...just because, I guess. It's a job that falls to us and most of us do it willingly. Or at least we complain less about it than we do about other jobs.

But I'll continue to enjoy pushing my mower around until I can't do it anymore, which given Toro's ingenious Personal Pace Drive system will probably be at least another three decades.

And if I do hit the age of 75 and am still push-mowing, you can be darn sure I'll be wearing plaid shorts and black socks while I'm doing it.

Snow, go away. Bring on grass-cutting season!

Please, kids, just turn off the lights

Back in April 2013, I wrote a blog post titled "If my children want to make me happy, here's what they'll do..." Item #1 on that list – placed there because it was very important to me – was the following:

(1) Stop leaving lights on in unoccupied rooms: If you leave a room and there's no other person left in that room, and if the light is on, turn the light off. Off. Turn the light off. Just turn the light off. Don't leave the light on. Turn it off. On = bad. Off = good. Is this clear? You're shooting for the light being in the "off" position here. That's what I'm trying to get across. If you leave the room, and you're the last person in the room, the light should be off when you leave. Not on. Off.

Pretty clear, no? I know that at least 60% of my children read that post, and I felt confident that they would not only understand and apply these instructions themselves, but also disseminate the message to the remaining 40% of children and thus ensure universal compliance in the house when it comes to the very sore subject of turning off lights when they leave rooms.

Sadly, nearly two years later, I have the regrettable duty to inform you that we have made virtually no progress within the family in this particular area. Other things have gotten better as the kids have aged, but light extinguishment, I must say, is not among them.

Several times a week, I will notice a light on in the basement. Hearing no noise in the basement, I will immediately suspect that it's unoccupied and therefore being unnecessarily illuminated.

So I will walk down there to assess the situation, and 9 times out of 10, my suspicions will be confirmed: Empty basement, blazing lights, angry daddy.

There are two issues at play here, you understand. One involves the simple economics of the situation. The electric bill, which it must be said I am solely responsible for paying, goes up the more electricity we use. A certain amount of electrical consumption is unavoidable, of course. I get that.

But keeping the lights on in rooms devoid of human beings is not within my budget, and is one of many situations in which the already-high cost of raising children goes up unnecessarily. When you leave the room, my little ones, you must turn off the light. TURN. OFF. THE. LIGHT.

The second issue is one of responsibility and maturity. I have one child in her early 20s, three in their teens, and one who is 9. None of these is so young that they can't be expected to have the common courtesy and respect to turn off the lights when they leave the room.

I urge them to try the following any time they're leaving a room:

STEP 1: Ask yourself, "Am I leaving this room for an extended period of time? Will it be more than 60 seconds before I come back?"

STEP 2: If the answer is "yes" and you're the only room currently in the room, then ask yourself, "OK, is there anything I should do before I exit the room?"

STEP 3: Consider that the answer to that question is always "yes." And that something that you need to do is turn off the lights.

STEP 4: Locate the light switch.

STEP 5: Change it to a position such that the lights go out.

STEP 6: Exit the room without turning the lights back on. Or, if you do need to turn the lights back on, go back to step 1 and repeat this process before making your departure.

Do we have that, kids? Just turn off the lights in any room from which you're about to exit, again assuming that no one is left in the room who may be using the lights (and who can presumably be trusted to turn off those lights themselves when they leave).

Please, I'm at the end of my rope on this. If I pull out of the driveway one more time knowing there's no one at home, and as I look up to the second floor of the house I notice someone has left the light on in their room, I'll break. I'm not kidding, I'll snap.

And in the ultimate bit of irony, I'll ask the warden to make sure he turns off the electric chair when he's finished after they execute me for murdering you.

I probably need a plan of some sort...

I have one daughter in college and another who will be starting in less than six months, and I feel like I should be providing them more in the way of career advice and guidance.

The problem is that I have no idea what to tell them. I never received much advice myself, so I've always just kind of winged it when it has come to the world of work.

Job interviewers will occasionally ask you, "So where do you see yourself in five years?" And I don't know what to say, because I honestly don't know where I see myself in five minutes.

Which in some sense is OK, right? You always hear how you should live in the moment and not worry about anything but today. And I'm really good at that.

But I think looking ahead to the future is also a pretty good idea, and I rarely do it. I am so absolutely caught up in getting through the here and now that I lack the time, energy and focus to plan for anything beyond that.

This is somewhat reflected at work, where as a director-level employee I'm expected to be forward-thinking and strategic. Yet what I'm really good at is getting things done. Checking boxes on the to-do list. Making it to the end of the day with as many things in the "finished" pile as possible.

Co-workers will ask me, "What's your plan for that?" My answer is usually, "Um, let me get back to you." And I do eventually get back to them with plans that are (surprisingly to me, anyway) pretty good. Which shows that I have the ability, just not the inclination.

Anyway, when it comes time for me to offer fatherly career advice to the kids, I'm kind of at a loss. If I don't chart out my own path, I'm certainly not the guy who should be mapping out someone else's.

I mean, I have some idea of where I'm going with my career: retirement. At what age, and whether that will even be possible, are both unknown to me. As are the details of just how I'm going to get there. My general intention is to keep working, saving money when I can, and finding some as-yet murky way to stop working so I can retire and do...something else I'm not sure about.

You see what I mean? I'm kind of directionless. Just get the kids raised and safely into their own lives, that's pretty much the extent of my "plan." Beyond that, I think my life will eventually also involve going to more hockey games and orchestral concerts.

And...that's about all I have.

If someone would like to offer life guidance and career planning services to my kids, I would be ever so grateful.

Who do you want to die first: You or your spouse?

No, really, I'm asking this seriously. Would you rather die first? Or would you rather that your husband/wife die first?

And don't do that noble "Oh, I would willingly sacrifice myself so that my spouse could live on" thing. I want a straight answer: Deep down, if you could make the choice and no one would know, would you choose to live longer yourself? Or would you let your significant other carry on while you're six feet under?

Short of homicide, none of us has a say in the matter, of course. And statistics tell us that in the majority of cases, the wife lives longer than the husband, since women tend to outlive men.

But if you had to decide, what are you going with?

If you say you would rather live longer, there are some pros and cons to consider:

PROS
The most obvious one, duh, is that you get to live longer. That falls right in line with natural survival instincts. Also, all those years of waking up cold because your spouse pulled the covers off you? Gone. You can now spend the remainder of your days (or nights, I guess) in toasty warm comfort. You're also a Committee of One when it comes to making such important decisions as what movie to watch on Friday night or how to hang the toilet paper (NOTE: It should definitely be "over" and not "under.")

CONS
Well, let's be serious here. You're going to be awfully lonely if you're the only one left. I watched my mom make a series of painful life adjustments after my dad died 15 years ago, and I give her credit for doing it as well as she did. I'm not sure I could handle it. Also, all of the chores the other person always did – which they probably took over because you hated those jobs so much – are suddenly your responsibility. It's something to think about.

There's also this complicating factor: If you decide you want to be the one to go first, that means you're purposely saddling your spouse with all of the "cons" listed above. Nice going. You just made their Life After You even MORE miserable.

I've always joked with Terry that, given my family history of heart disease, this isn't even a question for us. I'll be dead and buried and she'll still have 20 or 30 good years in front of her. But if I had to choose? Wow....I don't know. I guess I would still choose to die first.

NOTE TO TERRY: When I'm gone and you have to take over cleaning the cat litter boxes, you should remember to always keep at least 3 inches of litter in each box. Otherwise those balls of smelly cat urine tend to stick to the plastic and are hard to scrape off. You're welcome.

So yesterday was Ron Howard's birthday...

I am quite possibly one of only a handful of people outside of Ron Howard's family who knew without being told that yesterday was his birthday.

Every March 1st (I'm not kidding, every March 1st), my wife and I have a conversation that goes something like this:

ME: Hey, guess what today is?

TERRY (thinking for a second to recall whether it's one of our kid's birthdays or something): I don't know?

ME: It's Ron Howard's birthday!

TERRY (clearly unimpressed): Oh...thanks.

Why, you might ask, do I have Richie Cunningham's birthday memorized? Because I just do. Because that's me: I fill my head with meaningless facts and dates about which no one cares. And I do so at the expense of remembering more important things, such as my children's names and my wife's favorite Starbucks drink.

NOTE: The whole Terry's-favorite-Starbucks-drink thing actually caused me a bit of pain and suffering a couple of months ago. I was going to Starbucks to buy treats for the family, and I asked her what she wanted. "You should know what I want," she said. "What's my favorite drink at Starbucks?" And I was sure I knew, except for the fact that I didn't. Well, I knew part of it. She had to remind me of the rest, which was not the right answer on my part, let me tell you. (For the record, she likes a grande skinny caramel macchiato with whip.)

But anyway, I know all sorts of useless stuff. It makes for a nice party trick, and I'm good to have around in case an impromptu game of Trivial Pursuit breaks out. But in most real-life applications, my knowledge and skills do not apply.

You probably know people like me: Not necessarily intelligent, but a brain overflowing with raw data. It's the truly talented people of the world who actually do something with this data and turn it into something useful. People like me simply recite it back on command, which like I said is kind of impressive the first time or two you see it, but after that is a bit repetitive.

One of the things I know without looking up is Ron Howard's birthday. Every March 1st, he's the guy I'm thinking of. The calendar turns and I get the itch to watch reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.

Like the one where Opie tells Andy about a mystical character named Mr. McBeevee. And Andy thinks Opie is just making him up, but he's really not. And then Opie gets threatened with a spanking when he insists that Mr. McBeevee gave him a quarter, and it turns out in the end that Mr. McBeevee is a real-life telephone lineman.

That episode? I could tell you every line of dialogue. My computer password at work (i.e., something extremely useful to me)? I had to think for almost two solid minutes just now before I remembered it. It's not easy being me.