Dumb Ass Dave



From my blog about being a father after a 19 year hiatus.

Sometime in August 2014

Dumb Ass is as Dumb Ass Was

The Fiery Start

When I thought about starting a column/blog I pondered some things. The first thing I wondered was how do you start that first one off and of course isn’t writing a column stupid? It looks like I got past the stupid part. If you’re going to do a bland old food column then it’s probably pretty easy. You eat a cupcake from some new fangled, scrumptious place, ponder over its majestic flavors and then write about it. I don’t have anything against food columns but they’re just not my thing. I do however love the new world of cupcakes. Yum!

For this column about nothing, not the Seinfeld kind of nothing, but a kind of nothing that won’t have any real focus, I thought honesty might be the best way to kick it off. I’m not talking about real honesty but my own perceived honesty. Whatever I write in this space I honestly believe it to be true to some degree. Is what I say completely true and fully credible, hell no but I don’t really care and I guess it’s up to you whether that’s okay.

This column probably isn’t for the masses as it is merely going to be the ranting and ravings of a lunatic. I’m not talking about an asylum lunatic but just your average normal lunatic like yourself. I truly don’t care if thousands of people or just one single person reads this column/blog. It is going to be filled with crudeness, profanities/vulgarity/cussing/curse words, uncontrolled thoughts, stupidity, brilliance (rare occasions), and a release of my raw/uncontrolled/pent up emotions. It may have moments of poignancy and it will have a great deal of primitiveness along with my opinion as it is in that exact moment of time. My opinion seems to remain rigid and unwavering in very few things. If my opinion changes like the wind and you are averse to such behavior then don’t read this column/blog. If you don’t like anything I write, say, or express then don’t read thiscolumn/blog. I’m sure there are many other columns out there that will live up to your expectations but this one will not. Read it, don’t read it, I don’t give a shit just leave it alone if you dislike it, is that too much to ask? Now you’re asking yourself if I’m just baiting you along. That’s a damn good question, huh. 

You’re probably truly wondering who this moronic jerk is, that is if you’ve even read this far.  Well, I’ll tell you that I’m not a published author and would I like to be someday? Oh, I suppose so. However my vision for that was certainly not like this but then I began to think, why not? If it is good enough for Dear Abby/Dave Barry/Rick Reilly then it’s certainly good enough for me.  This column/blog is really just one form of my self prescribed therapeutic releases and when I get to who I am you might understand why I need therapy but then again, don’t we all need it?

I’m a retired Chief Warrant Officer after twenty-two years of dedicated service in one of America’s fine branches of the Armed Forces. For those of you that know what that means, Chief Warrant Officer, you’re already snickering. As the rest of you are quickly learning, most warrants don’t sugar coat things or hide behind bullshit. I can promise you that this is not going to be a military column because there are plenty of those out there too. Will there be some militia/military/armed forces things in it, sure because that was a large part of my life but only a little smidge here and there.  This is going to be my World According to Garp (thanks for the laughs — Robin Williams) except I’m Dumb Ass Dave (DAD) and there’s far more to me than those long, grueling but fantastic years of serving this great country (USA).

I’m an overweight man edging his way into middle age with the brakes on and they are already rapidly overheating (I’ve been smelling smoke for years). My birthday was just a few days ago but that alone isn’t what’s causing me to put the proverbial pen to paper. As far as birthday’s go I never have been a big fan of my own. For people who like their birthday, I say go all out for them. For those of us who don’t and think of it as just another day, I say let us be. There are some of us who say we don’t want a big deal on their special day yet they truly do, but I’m not one of them. Now that I’m forty-four years closer to the inevitable I really don’t appreciate them at all. The word death is something people treat as if it was he who should not be named, but I see it as an eventual reprieve to all this constant strife. Do I wanna die soon? Heck no, but now that I might be more than halfway to the other side, I do see it as an unavoidable eventuality and perhaps, welcomed rest.

Take my latest birthday; I awoke to my momentous day to a very pissy baby and dog vomit all over the kitchen floor. It was a lot of fucking vomit and babies well they are babies. My wife was already trying to make sure my day was extra great, but I’m an asshole when it comes to this and she’s stubborn as hell. Good combination, right? Yeah, exactly. Did I mention that my elderly mother came into town on the same day and my middle aged son was already in town? He used to be the youngest son but the third son recently changed that. Is this causing him distress? No, probably not, but it sure is some of the concern in my loopy head. I love having my mom in town for my birthday/visit/checkup but as I stated I’m not a huge fan of my big day so the added hooray/hoopla/revelry was not ideal, for me. 

Due to my poor sportsmanship, and my wife’s utter determination, my birthday was a travesty to say the least. I think that she’s cried on two of my birthdays that we’ve been together and that’s two out of three. Not bad, I suppose, but it certainly wasn’t what I was striving for. Well I guess there’s always next year. I’m excited already.

If it’s not completely obvious then I’ll come right out and say it, I’m a stay at home DAD that’s in his second round of child rearing after a long hiatus (I have two older boys that are actually young men, well sorta/mostly/not really). I won’t say that having more children was my choice but I wasn’t completely against it either…once I chose option A in the ultimatum. You’re probably going oh, he’s one of those guys, a divorced older man married to a younger woman who to his chagrin/mortification/sorrow wanted children. Well, if that’s what you were thinking then you are absolutely right and you should get a cupcake/do a shot/high five yourself. I often wonder how many other guys like me are out there. The prestigious clinic that I went to for my vasectomy reversal indicated there were plenty of us. From what I could tell they were right because business seemed to be booming. Someday I’ll tell you all about the trials and tribulations that got us this spectacular new addition to our peculiar family but that’s for later columns/blogs.

I’m a very lucky man to have my newest son and my beautiful wife. I’m not saying that because she’ll be the first one to read this, but because he is an amazing baby and she is an incredible woman. I’d write that even if this was going into my private diary knowing she’d never read it. I wish there was a more masculine word for diary. How about lifelog? Yes, from now on it'll be called my lifelog instead of diary, any other men with me on this? Yes. I bet there are plenty as I know you don’t like journal/notebook/day-book/column/blog any better than I do.

Now, you’re thinking a younger wife, hmmmm he’s either hung like a porn star or very wealthy.  Neither is the case and so now you’re thinking he must be a great guy. No. Not really. Your final option is that she must be touched in the head and is a glutton for punishment. Well. That’s the best answer I can come up with as well. Truthfully that’s probably not true either, so what gives? How does this flabby older man with baggage galore have this younger viral vixen as his beloved wife? It’s the old love is blind adage except they forget to add that love’s timepiece isn’t broken, it just doesn’t exist whatsoever. That’s one part of the secret to love having no bounds, it doesn’t give a damn about time. That’s how an eighty-year-old curmudgeon can marry a twenty-year-old fun loving bombshell; nah just kidding that phenomena is all about the money. At any rate, time or timing gets in the way of two people who should be together the same way it allows two people, who on paper shouldn’t be together, join as one. According to my BMI I’m obese but I’m doing alright compared to a large part of the good ole’ USA. I’m a decent looking fellow and have my moments, but what a tremendous amount of baggage she took on—yeah she’s great. Yup, love is a blind foolish force that has no concept of time and we’re living proof. She is closer in age to my oldest son than to me. If you just chuckled out loud so did we after I said that to her when we were first dating, in fact it might’ve been our first date—I’m a romantic.

You’re getting a pretty good image of me by now and a damn good idea of what this lifelog will be like (well probably not) but let me clarify a few things. Since my retirement not quite a year ago, I’ve grown a full beard and let my hair grow fairly long (typical retiree actions, trust me).  As stated I’m a stay at home parent (said loosely) but you should also know that we live in a fifth wheel, by choice not circumstance or necessity. I take my son and the dog out for an hour long walk nearly every day. During these walks I’ve been stopped on more than a dozen occasions by people telling me I look like that guy from the movie Hang Over. When I have my sunglasses on (Rayban terminator type) and my little boy is in the front facing carrier they aren’t far from wrong. I’m not looking to be the next wave of celebrity lookalikes but I gotta say that this makes me really happy. It’s not because I look like someone famous and I certainly didn’t do it intentionally, but seeing us seems to make a lot of people’s day. In fact more than a few people have told me those very words. They said, ‘you guys make our day every time you see you’.  Pretty cool since I’m just walking by with my beautiful son, who doesn’t care anymore than I do, that I look like a real life Alan Garner (the character’s name in the movie). The embarrassment from this would’ve never allowed me to do things like this at twenty-five, but at my age humiliation isn’t even a concept anymore. That’s a damn good thing because we can’t hang out in a fifth wheel all day long, now can we.

In closing this first attempt at a self-prescribed therapeutic lifelog I’ll have to admit that I feel pretty good. I’ve gotten a lot off my chest and certainly did my best to keep it to a ranting vice a raving. I think my next therapy session will reveal the meaning of life, solve some of Einstein’s left over’s, talk about odd e-x-t-e-n-d-e-d families, and delve more into who I am. Then again it may have nothing to do with any of that. If you like what you have read then keep it to yourself; don’t twitter it, post it to some site, or talk to other people about it. Like Fight Club only I fucking mean it or am I just baiting you again!? If you feel that it’s a gem worth reading, then keep it to yourself and let the small, quiet mouse remain a tiny little creature eating cheese crumbs the size of his Mighty Mouse ego.

Until next time kiddos,

Dumb Ass Dave aka DAD

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