A Dad’s Point-of-View

by Bruce Sallan

My “A Dad’s Point-of-View” column is carried all over the world and one of the wonderful peripheral benefits I receive is “virtually” meeting so many wonderful editors, publishers, and web-masters. One of them is Jennifer Jurgens, the news director/executive assistant, at wyomingnetwork.com. They have 17 community websites across Wyoming. She is also a wonderful and involved mom. Recently, she wrote to me asking some questions that related to her daughter beginning middle school. Well, to be more accurate, she was suggesting that these questions (a.k.a. issues) could be the basis for one of my columns.

Unlike the “Empty Nest Syndrome,” that is well known, documented, and ubiquitously written about, the “Middle School Syndrome” is my term for what I believe is a newer “syndrome.” This column will bring this reality out from the shadows where it has lurked! To be clear, the term “Middle School Syndrome” is mine and it is based on my experiences and those of parents that I know. I suspect it is widespread, but I’m sure it is not present in every community and every school district.

It all begins today with pre-school, which was known as “nursery school” when I attended. It was a simple affair when I attended. We played. And, then we played some more. Now, in some exclusive regions of our country, the parents have to beg and show their financial statements to get their precious darlings into the pre-school du jour.

Thus, the school journey begins and it has become much more complicated than in the past. As we know all too well, our country’s budget problems have caused numerous cutbacks in schools nationwide. Programs that were standard when I attended primary school, like sports, music, “shops” (e.g. wood, metal, and auto), are largely gone or have been relegated to after-school and parent-supported activities.

Plus, class-size and budget cuts have resulted in much more active recruitment by the schools of parent volunteers and much more political and clique-driven parent-teacher associations, run mostly by the SAHMs (Stay-At-Home-Moms).

Many of these women came from the business world and bring that energy, enthusiasm, and drive to these parent-teacher groups.

I became the SAHD (Stay-At-Home-Dad) for my two boys during the early days of their elementary school education and, later, became the 24/7 parent when my first wife and I separated and later divorced. During those years, I was thrust into the different and strange world of these parent-teacher organizations. Dads were few and far between. I was treated with a sort of distant tolerance but it quickly became clear that these moms did not want a man in their midst.

At first, I found this a bit hurtful but later understood that the basic gender differences and interests were largely what motivated my isolation from the inner-core of these parent groups. I chose to volunteer directly in my boys’ classes, give my donated funds directly to their teachers, and thus actually got more personal benefit, satisfaction, and value for my money and time.

It was abundantly clear to me that the parent role in elementary school had undergone a significant and distinct change in the past decade or two. No longer were parents invited to attend just a “back-to-school” day or occasional assembly. Now there were monthly assemblies, regular fund-raisers, and constant demands for time and money from the parents.

I took particular ironic pleasure in these assemblies where, over the course of the school year, every kid in every class would eventually “earn” an award. In the name of self-esteem, these awards naturally lost any value they might have otherwise had. But, it was a regular opportunity for the parents to take video and photos of their “darlings” and another opportunity for the elite of the parent-teacher organizations to stand up and speak on behalf of all the parents and on behalf of the school fund-raising efforts.

So, parents now had new jobs. They helped run their kids’ schools, raise the funds to meet their school’s budgets, and began having a say in much more of their kid’s education than had ever occurred before. Naturally, it filled that work need that so many of these former career-driven moms had forsaken for the role and job of mom. In other words, it took on too much importance in their lives and became too much a part of their identity.

Now we get to the heart of the matter and why I think that we have “the middle school syndrome.” The reason is simply that the middle schools pretty much banish the parents and actually run themselves. So, these parents who were taking such pride, pleasure, and job satisfaction from the seven years of elementary school participation all of a sudden find themselves “jobless.”

So, as my friend Jennifer suggested in her letter to me on this subject, she was trying to figure out her new role, now that her daughter had begun middle school. I responded that her new role was age-old; she now was just going to have to settle for being her daughter’s mother, rather than her political advocate and parent-teacher advisor at her school. And that, my friends, is the sum and substance of “the middle school syndrome”–moms and dads having to settle for just raising their children, teaching them their values, monitoring their activities, and letting the schools take care of their offspring’s education.

Lesson? Let go. Be the best mom or dad you can be. And, maybe, take up golf.

Please listen to “The Bruce Sallan Show – A Dad’s Point-of-View” Thursdays at 11:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m., PST on KZSB AM1290 in Santa Barbara or on the Internet via a live stream. For that link and all information about the show and Bruce, visit his web-site: http://brucesallan.com. Bruce created and launched a new website for those who would like Tech help, called BoomerTechTalk (http://www.BoomerTechTalk.com). Bruce’s column, “A Dad’s Point-of-View,” is available in over 100 newspapers and web-sites worldwide. Find Bruce on Facebook by joining his “A Dad’s Point-of-View” page: http://www.facebook.com/aDadsPointOfView. You can also follow Bruce at Twitter: http://twitter.com/BruceSallan.

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By Peter Ehrlich

Lust. Love. Betrayal. War. Redemption. Peace. Sounds like an ad for your typical television fictional mini-series. It’s not. It’s my life-changing non-fictional journey as a single dad.

My ex and I separated and the subsequent result was her and I engaging in a fierce custody battle. A few couples can separate amicably. We could not.

When a mother and father fight over their child, the stakes always feel exponentially extreme.

Watch any nature program starring a mother bear and her cubs (children). Then picture yourself walking into the frame with the intention of approaching her babies. You’re not walking out unscathed. That’s motherhood.

Unlike male bears, evolved men are programmed to care for and defend their children as well. That’s fatherhood.

In a custody battle, it’s not about Venus and Mars. It’s about Venus and Venus – colliding.

And so, like lots of you, my ex and I fought – a lot. The hostility was always there. Whether on the phone or during the “handoff” we were like the two guards facing each other at the DMZ between North and South Korea.

Even apart, the silence of our war was deafening.

To steal a line from Apocalypse Now, my ex and I looked upon each other “with extreme prejudice”.

Then life threw me a magical curve. Here goes.

As per our Access Schedule, I went to my son’s school to pick him up. (My ex was the registrar.)

When I walked in, the entire staff crowded around me; “Suzanne didn’t come in today for work. And she never called in sick”. There was a look of deep concern in their faces.

With their words my body caved in. I knew my ex was in serious trouble. Suzanne was too disciplined to not call in. It was impossible. Something was very wrong.

I was stricken. There was nothing cerebral about my reaction. It was all from the gut. As Woody Allen says, “nothing worth knowing can be understood by the mind”.

I grabbed my son, jumped into the car, racing to her house.

I knocked. No answer. The door was unlocked, the house empty. I got on the phone and called her best friend, now nearly hysterical, “Ingrid, Suzanne is missing”.

She suggested I call the police and ask if an ambulance was sent to the address.

I did, and yes, Suzanne was picked up by an ambulance and taken to Mt. Sinai.

Speeding there, I parked the car in the first illegal spot I saw and we ran to her room.

There she was, her eyes lighting up at the sight of our son. She had a gall bladder attack. I slumped in a chair, put my face in my hands and cried.

A nurse came in and said to Suzanne, “see how your husband loves you”.

We heard the words but could not possibly acknowledge the great irony to each other. Suzanne saw my tears and silently absorbed them. The emotional benefit for me would be manifested another day.

The magic? I discovered a love for my ex. I loved Suzanne because she loved our son. Nothing else mattered. I discovered the ultimate bottom line, and by doing so, was freed from the shackles of “extreme prejudice”.

Since that day we have been civil towards each other, something our son loves.

It’s the end of the year. Maybe it’s a good time to look deep within ourselves to discover the part of our soul that understands, once you willingly have a baby with someone, there is always love – somewhere.

Feel free to contact Peter at peter@geronimocode.com

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Summer means backyard barbecues, swimming pools, ice cream, and Crocs

By: Howard Ludwig, TheFatherLife.com

Many of the kids in my neighborhood wear uniforms to school. During the summer, they wear a uniform of a different sort – shorts, T-shirts and Crocs.

Crocs are flexible foam shoes often sold in bright colors. The plastic clogs are riddled with air holes. Wearers praise these quirky kicks for their comfort and convenience. Crocs slip on and off quickly, clean up easily and don’t absorb foot odor.

Another equally vocal contingent despises the shoes for their fashion. A Facebook group called, “I don’t care how comfortable Crocs are, you look like a dumbass” has 1.5 million members. “They are the most visually insulting footwear of all time,” writes one Facebook fan.

My two- and three-year-old sons don’t have Facebook pages. They don’t have much fashion sense either (just like the old man). In fact, Bubba and Peter’s idea of red-carpet fashion is Star Wars pajamas and Spider-Man underwear.

My boys love Crocs because most of their friends have them. And while my youngest sometimes struggles to use a fork, even he can take his Crocs on and off by himself. Their feet don’t sweat in Crocs. And, the shoes are perfect for playing in puddles or in the sandbox.

For all of these same reasons, I love Crocs too – to hell with fashion.

Yet, I questioned the safety of these shoes. They aren’t sturdy. Perhaps parents of Croc-wearing tots are setting their children up for a lifetime of foot problems. Imagine a whole generation of flat-footed adults cursing their parents for outfitting them in foam resin clogs.

Marlene Reid said not to worry. She’s a spokeswoman for the American Podiatric Medical Association and practices podiatry in suburban Chicago. She also believes Crocs are relatively safe, particularly when compared to other summer footwear. “Crocs have certain components that we (podiatrists) look for in every shoe,” Reid said.

Crocs feature a contoured arch and a heel cup. There’s also ample room in the toe area, making the often-ridiculed shoe a viable option for folks with bunions and hammer toes. Finally, Crocs have flexible soles that bend as kids walk, Reid said.

It’s worth noting that some parents opt for off-branded Crocs, or Crock-offs. These shoes are fine too, as long as they have the same characteristics listed here, Reid said.

Of course, Crocs are not athletic shoes. So don’t send Junior to soccer practice wearing his slipons, but they’re much better than flip-flops and other flat-bottomed, stiff-soled summer shoes. In fact, the shoemaker even sells a medical version of Crocs that features a deeper heel cup and other custom features, Reid said.

With that in mind, the boys and I drove 100 miles to our nearest outlet mall. There’s a Crocs store there. The walls are lined with Crocs in more colors than you will find at Sherwin Williams. Bubba picked out a pair of royal blue Crocs. Peter opted for bright red. If you are going to wear ugly shoes, might as well flaunt it.

Howard Ludwig is a former business writer who traded in his reporter’s notebook for a diaper bag, becoming a stay-at-home dad. He can be reached at hludwig@thefatherlife.com.

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A Dad’s Point-of-View

By Bruce Sallan

Is it ever okay to keep a secret from your spouse? If so, what secrets are okay and which are not? I would suggest there are times where a so-called “white lie” is a good thing while most of the time honesty is truly the best policy.

An example of a good “white lie” is the ubiquitous situation in which a wife asks her husband, “Am I looking fat?” or “How do I look in this dress?” We men know there’s only one answer, really: “You look great, Honey,” or some version of that.

Yes, that is funny, but many life situations are not. Blended families pose their own unique challenges, especially when both partners bring children to that blend. Children naturally feel closer to their biological parent.

Sometimes a biological child in a blended family will want to tell his or her mother or father something without it being revealed to their stepparent. I think this is an example of when keeping a secret may be okay.

I posed this general question about keeping secrets on my Facebook page and here are a sample of the considerable number of responses:

It depends on the secret, but in general I believe that spouses should not keep secrets; this is your soul mate and best friend…

“Whoever goes about slandering reveals secrets, but he who is trustworthy in spirit keeps a thing covered.” Proverbs 11:13

Before analyzing the secrets we keep from others, it all begins with the secrets we keep from ourselves.

Lies are usually born of pride and/or fear and there should be no pride or fear in love…

Oh and as far as blended families…bio has the first allegiance I feel…unless the kids were raised as infants or toddlers. Not many steps agree with this, but blood carries weight.

Spouses shouldn’t keep secrets, however, we are all “flawed” humans, and that is where the shades of gray come in.

As women, we just need to vent sometimes and I have realized that occasionally–just depends on what it is–that it actually frustrates him because men are “fixers” and we don’t always want to fix the problem, we just need to share it – get it off our chest.

I divide lies into white lies and black lies. White lies are for the protection of others (like focusing on positive aspects, praise, reassurance) while black lies protect me from all the awful things I’ve done (like I was unfaithful) and i should just fess up and take the punishment.

It’s clear that this issue is incendiary and provokes strong feelings and reactions from both men and women. I expect to get blasted for this next generality, but I believe women want “no secrets” withheld, more than men do. My unscientific “A Dad’s Point-of-View” gender-poll at the gym got instant responses from the women that no secrets should be withheld, while the men were more reflective or replied, “it depends.”

When I delved into it further with the women, they too would say that they needed to think about it some more. The example of blended families and children feeling more comfortable opening up to their biological parent and asking that it be kept from their step-parent, usually got an “I’ll have to think about that” from these moms.

When secrets are mentioned, the first thing most people think of is infidelity, which I will also assert may not always be a black and white issue. Again, most women said they wanted to know, while most men were less sure and thought it may depend on circumstances.

Rather than delve into what might be an acceptable circumstance to keep an indiscretion a secret, I will leave that for you to ponder. Just by using the word “indiscretion,” I know I’m implying there may be situations where it may be better to keep it a secret.

Okay, I can’t fully resist so I’ll share a hypothetical example. Which would you prefer? For your spouse to have a weekly, intimate, lunch with a co-worker and share their deepest feelings and thoughts (that him or her was not sharing with you) or for your spouse to have a one-night sexual liaison while away on business?

What if the spouse now reveals this secret, this incident? And, what if the partner just wouldn’t or couldn’t forgive the cheating incident? A divorce may follow. Untold pain and financial burdens accompany that process. And the children are now split from a whole family. Was it worth the truth in that case?

Finally, what about things that happened before we were married? Are we obligated to reveal any and every shameful incident from our past? What good would it do? Is it relevant? For instance, any health-related past that might affect our partner or our children I believe should and must be disclosed. But, does everything we may have done and possibly regretted really have to be told?

By now, it’s clear that my position is a nuanced one. I also skirted any and all religious values and approached these situations in a truly secular manner. In no way do I want to imply that such religious values are invalid and, frankly, I believe a religious foundation more often serves all of us best. Honesty is usually the best policy, but life is complicated and sometimes, maybe it’s best to keep some things secret.

Please listen to “The Bruce Sallan Show – A Dad’s Point-of-View” Thursdays at 11:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m., PST on KZSB AM1290 in Santa Barbara or on the Internet via a live stream. For that link and all information about the show and Bruce, visit his web-site: http://brucesallan.com. Bruce’s column, “A Dad’s Point-of-View,” is available in over 75 newspapers and web-sites worldwide. Find Bruce on Facebook by joining his “A Dad’s Point-of-View” fan page: http://www.facebook.com/aDadsPointOfView. You can also follow Bruce at Twitter: http://twitter.com/BruceSallan.

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A Dad’s Point-of-View

By Bruce Sallan

Teen energy, angst, and anger manifest itself in so many ways. Every day it seems that we read about some teen that has done something unusually self-destructive, and occasionally destructive to others.

Columbine was an extreme example of this. Many so-called “normal” teens tend to use or abuse the ol’ standbys of drinking, drugs, and sex to handle these emotions and changes.

For my own 16-year-old, his reaction has been mostly anger. The irony is that I’ve found this to be both good and bad.

How hormones affect the average teen have been studied and documented, but no one really knows definitively their effect since each teen reacts in different ways. The same is true for most women’s experience with menopause, as my wife has suffered horribly while for her mother it was a blip on the screen of her mid-life.

Will has done a little of the aforementioned “standbys” stated above, to some degree. But he’s done nothing extraordinary, over-the-top, or that different from all teens with the possible exception of his recent angry moods.

When I say moods, I mean moods. Let’s try a few descriptive words: sullen, quiet, loud, belligerent, intransigent, stubborn, willful, explosive. His impulsive behavior got him in a mess of trouble when he posted a mean-spirited comment on Facebook. The backlash, as it instantaneously circulated among all his friends and peers, was stunning. It nearly de-railed Will’s wonderful eight-month relationship with his girlfriend, as all her friends got involved, taking sides, and giving his minor comment a true life of its own.

At first, Will just got angrier and angrier before we really talked it out and I got him to post an apology. Sadly, the others that were now involved wouldn’t let it go, but this isn’t the point of this column.

The point is how do teen boys channel their energy, their out-of-control hormones, and anger? For many, sports are the outlet. Banging each other on the football field till exhaustion probably can moderate any teen’s angry mood.

Will never cared for sports, but he did like and then love rock ‘n’ roll. It began with his getting an inexpensive electric guitar as a graduation present from Elementary School. He evolved into an accomplished musician, as he now plays guitar, bass, and drums, and he sings. Along the way, I supported him by taking him to concerts by legendary performers like Bruce Springsteen and Eric Clapton as well as some of his contemporary bands such as Green Day, Incubus, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, to name just a few.

Joining a local School-of-Rock type of school where kids get put into bands and perform at local venues, gave him his first taste of performing. In his tween years, at which time he just played guitar, he developed a charismatic presence on stage. Or, as I tend to believe, it just came natural to him.

But, with the onset of puberty and all its attendant hormonal changes, this outlet proved even more vital and cathartic for him. Less than a year ago, he took up the drums. We jokingly say that the video game “Rock Band” taught him the basics, as he almost instantly was a pro. This proved to be the ultimate release for his pent-up anger and emotion, as he’d go and bang on the drums until there was a puddle of sweat accumulated on the garage floor.

His first performance on the drums coincided with his 15th birthday. He had been playing for maybe four months. Now, the inherent charisma he’d shown playing guitar, turned into something deeper and more intoxicating. At this show, the energy and magnetism he displayed clearly took the center of attention completely away from the singer, in this case a teen girl.

Undeterred, she responded with amazing calm and, cool as can be, integrated Will’s energy into her performance. Rather than fight what he was bringing, she interacted with him in an unrehearsed manner as she’d jump on the drums platform and sing to him. Yes, they had rehearsed, but Will doesn’t come out and show his stuff until he’s on stage, so she had no idea of what was to come.

That show was terrific and an eye-opener. He’s now grown into a wildly exciting drummer, guitarist, and more recently a singer. Suffering from a cold and recovering from a broken arm, he did vocals in a Rage Against The Machine tribute concert. In his 10-minute exhibition, he left the audience and himself exhausted from the power of his vocals and showmanship. In fact, halfway through it, during an instrumental interlude, he sat on his haunches and just tried to recover his breath.

This story is really not about my son, but rather about the need for our teen boys, and maybe our girls too, to have that outlet–that passion that will keep their wild puberty in check. Our job as parents is to help our children find their passion and nurture it as best as we can. In my case, I just need earplugs.

Postscript: My son, through his own initiative, made his rock ‘n’ roll dream come true when he got to jam, on stage, with Chris Cornell at The Roxy Theatre in Hollywood May 3, 2010 (to read about it, go to: http://bit.ly/RnRonWS).

Please listen to “The Bruce Sallan Show – A Dad’s Point-of-View” Thursdays at 11:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m., PST on KZSB AM1290 in Santa Barbara or on the Internet via a live stream. For that link and all information about the show and Bruce, visit his web-site: http://brucesallan.com. Bruce’s column, “A Dad’s Point-of-View,” is available in over 75 newspapers and web-sites worldwide. Find Bruce on Facebook by joining his “A Dad’s Point-of-View” fan page: http://www.facebook.com/aDadsPointOfView. You can also follow Bruce at Twitter: http://twitter.com/BruceSallan.

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By  Peter Ehrlich
Special to Single Dad Life

My single mother collected bottles on Miami Beach for money. I know because she told me.

I was on Google Earth recently to learn more about that “beach-bottle” time. I had a frayed document with the Miami address. After I punched it in, I was beamed down to float right above our Miami apartment.

I hovered over the laneway that my mother had to have walked down to find her bottles. I stared at a great swath of sand at the end of the laneway, sharing the pain, shame and poverty that my mother must have felt.

We eventually fled back to Montreal, where we first lived in one room with my grandparents on the Esplanade and then finally to our own flat in Outremont, where I played in the mud and gravel behind the building.

When I was 5 years old, I told my mother, “I want a daddy” and a year later I was sitting on Gunther Ehrlich’s lap.

She asked, “How would you like Gunther to be your father?” Without hesitation, I said, “Yes.” When I found out we shared the same birthday, Dec. 6, the deal was spiritually sealed.

Until meeting him I had never fished, seen stars in the sky, walked in the woods or visited a zoo.

Gunther Ehrlich took me everywhere and introduced me to a new and beautiful world that I explored with unbridled joy.
He provided us with a real home, a life defined by cottages, lakes, hiking and fishing.

When we were not at the cottage, he took us on road trips to Vermont, Maine or the Adirondacks.
He taught me that travel is a great form of education and that the road less travelled is the best one, the place where one finds the greatest treasures.

For the first time I saw that men, too, can love and nurture and I was at last in the company of a man who “wanted” to be my father.

When my father said, “Here are the car keys,” he gave me wings, allowing me to experience the joy of independence.

My mother died at 49 when I was 17 years old. I still needed him and he was always there for me. Without him I would have fallen through the cracks of society.

I now know the degree of love and commitment it took for this “magic-man” to walk into my life and take on the mantle of father.

Who is a man who “wants” to father someone else’s children? He’s someone who:

• Sees past the notion that the only children worth loving are those created by his sperm and that anything else is less sacred.

• Finds joy in giving to children because the torch he wants to pass on isn’t defined by his last name, but rather the quality of love he feels a natural desire to impart.

• Understands that love is an activity, that there’s a reason children dance even when standing still. Children need to be active, have their heads stuck in everything good and beautiful. He makes this happen.

• Sees life as a process and wouldn’t deem a failed marriage a mistake. He gives a single Mom every opportunity to start anew and revels in the glow she radiates as she sheds the parched skin of a painful past.

He’s a man who saves lives. He’s also my father.

Thank you, Dad. I’ll pass it on to your grandson.

Feel free to contact him via his website – www.geronimocode.com or directly via peter@geronimocode.com

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By Peter Ehrlich

Have you brought home two or three love interests to seriously meet and hang out with your child?

If “yes,” read on, because your child’s developmental well-being will likely start to be compromised after they meet your next.

A study out of Johns Hopkins University has shown “that a child who had experienced more than three transitions had more behavioural problems than those who had no transitions.”

The research, funded by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, was published in the April 2007 issue of American Sociological Review and was peer-reviewed. In it, 2,097 children ages 5 to 14 had been studied since birth until 2000.

Behavioural problems mean delinquent behaviour, including skipping school, vandalism and crime.

The authors also observed that “children who experienced multiple transitions in family structure have lower average scores on tests of mathematics and reading skills.”

That’s a heavy price for children to pay for their parent’s libido.

Think of the transitions our children have gone through just to get to today. First, your children (hopefully) got to experience the “happy family period.” Then they perceived that their parents were falling out of love. That hurt.

Then they couldn’t understand why their parents were less patient with them. Finally, “why is Daddy (or Mommy) moving away?”

Many times I have encouraged you (and myself) to go out and meet someone. But life’s passion-swords are double-edged; its orgasms, sexual or not, carry a price.

The price of multiple transitions is heavy – a dysfunctional child who will become a dysfunctional adult, marooned on an island surrounded by stable people.

Most single parents know it’s unhealthy for children to have unnecessary transitions, but not all.

There are still stories of parents bringing their kids on first dates. Unforgiveable. That’s extreme, but over the course of a dozen years, it’s easy to meet three people who will affect your children.

Life is fragile.

It doesn’t take much to upset the balance – a wrong word, moment of infidelity or violence. We can easily create a situation that will result in a “forever haunting.”

When we choose to bring a new person into the lives of our children, we risk the tipping of that delicate balance our children desperately need – defined by consistency and peace.

Why do children hide behind your legs when strangers approach? It’s because they’re children and strangers are strange by definition.

To go from hiding behind your leg, to meeting your new friend, to feeling comfortable, reveling in the company of, to never seeing again is an arduous journey and children rely on us to take them there with discretion.

When “we” break up with someone, “they” break up with someone. That combined with the back and forth, the lugging of their “stuff” is a helluva lot to ask.

The single parent genie grants us three (transitional) wishes. After that, we bite the bullet and revel in our celibacy until our children can create their own transitions.

Then we’re free to make all the mistakes we still need to make on our karmic wheel.

Feel free to contact Peter at peter@geronimocode.com

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By Peter Ehrlich

I remember the first time I heard Neil Young sing Only Love Can Break Your Heart, I was in my early twenties. And I remember what I thought about the song. “Nice little jingle, but I should get back to Keith Richards banging out his signature dirty riffs to All Down the Line.

At that time I really never experienced the broken heart thing. Sure I had my breakups with my “girlfriends”, but being so young, I easily subscribed to the Buddhist notion that attachment is the cause of all unhappiness.

I suppose that when you’re so young that you can’t even begin to get a whiff of your own mortality, how much can a break-up mean? After all, you’re going to live forever.

That’s changed, because to quote Frank, “and now the end is near”. Well, the end isn’t exactly near, but it is.

I had my heart broken recently. You all know that. I told you about my animated discussions with my carpet mites, face flat against the floor. I did however leave out other details pertaining to that episode.

• When I did the laundry, after I put the clothes in, I would stare through the plastic top and watch the water rain down, the tub fill up. I found it comforting oddly enough.

• When I took the lint out of the dryer, I held it tightly for a moment before I trashed it. I found it comforting oddly enough.

• The other day I sat in a chair for half an hour and watched a spider crawl up the wall, wishing I could have such a simple life, the same feeling I get when I watch a cat, Zen masters unto themselves, do nothing, which is 99% of the time.

• When I went out, I purposely put on my heavy leather duster coat, just to feel its heavy weight on my shoulders, much the way Robert DeNiro lugged his net of metal objects up the mountain in the movie The Mission, as a way of atoning for the sin of killing his brother.

Breakups are all about penance and redemption, unless you’re the kind of asshole who believes it’s always the other person’s fault.

But I digress. Now I listen to Only Love Can Break Your Heart and understand exactly what that means.

Can the death of a loved one break your heart? No, I don’t think so. It can certainly kill part of you off, in that you’re changed forever by the loss, but it doesn’t break your heart.

(I remember when my mother died, I was seventeen, and I spent hours at a time listening to John Lennon sing “nothing’s gonna change my world”. (Across the Universe) And I knew exactly why I listened to that song, that many times, at that time; Twas because I knew that part of me died alongside my mother and that nothing was going to change that for the rest of my life. Part of my heart died on the day she died, but it didn’t break it.)

Now, let’s go on to the next part of the song, the line that comes after “only love can break your heart”. Here’s the crux of the song, the main theme, the big lesson for all of us, but the hardest lesson of them all; “try to be sure right from the start”.

This is where most of us screw up, because you know what I say. If you mix your genitalia together four times, you’re in a relationship my friend.

And you know what being in a relationship means my friend, it means this: “I am giving you permission to hurt me”. Or put another way, I am giving you permission to break my heart.

How hard is it to apply the lesson – try to be sure right from the start? It’s bloody difficult. It goes against all our primordial selves are programmed to do, have sex and go to heaven.

I’ve never seen heaven. I’ve only felt it.

You’re in your late thirties, or forties or fifties and you haven’t had a hand caress you in months or years. And someone walks through your door who looks just fabulous to you. They look great, smell great and the date(s) was/were great.

And yet, through all that greatness you know it likely can’t work and your gut is telling you why and you know your gut is right, as always. But instead of listening to the little man or women inside of us, what do we do? We turn them off, shut them down and proceed down the shadow of the valley of heartbreak death, all for the sake of serving our short-term needs.

Ok, now would you like to ask me how to walk away from temptations of the flesh in order to spare ourselves of a painful, “watch the spider” heartbreak?

I have no idea! Well, I do, as this column proves, but I’m way too pathetic. I think it’s my Venus in Scorpio thing that undermines all that I do.

I bumped into a stunningly beautiful, brilliant Greek Goddess recently who knew exactly what to do, how to put credence into the “try to be sure right from the start” thing. She left.

After a wonderful night of talking, eating, slow dancing to Frank Sinatra, she got up and left with these words: “I want to sleep with you but I don’t think it can work. You’ll never move to Burlington and I’ll never move to Toronto”.

Is a man even capable of saying “I want to sleep with you but it can’t work”?

I know we can say no, but I’m not sure we’re evolved enough to say why.

As she walked out the door, Frank was singing “Five minutes more”, which ends with him saying these words – “oh come on” with a sigh, which was exactly what I was saying – oh c’mon Angela, with a heavier sigh.

That’s as intelligent as I got. “Oh, come on Angela”. I think my IQ at that moment was 46.

But Angela was a woman who had learned her lessons. What was the point of starting anything if you know it’s only going to break your heart? I had to give her full credit.

And so, when you’re heading out for date four, knowing there’s a 100% chance you’re going to have sex for the fourth time, with someone you know it can’t work with, go to YouTube, find Neil Young’s Only Love Can Break Your Heart, then politely cancel and take a cold shower.

Yeah, right!

If you’d like to contact Peter,feel free to write him at peter@geronimocode.com

Related posts:

1. Single Parent Empty Nest Hard On The Heart
2. Children Bridge Divorce War Zone
3. Single Parent Genie Gives You Three Lovers

By Peter Ehrlich

I’m haunted by my Ex Katherine. Not by that went wrong with our relationship, but what went right with our relationship – our love life.

After being laid naked, fetal-positioned, paralyzed, and wanting by our breakup, I want to attempt a sequel with my Ex. I am willing to work harder on our vertical life together for the sake of getting back to our spectacular horizontal life together. How much harder? I am willing to change.

But am I being naïve? Or is a fulfilling love life worth fighting extra hard for? Should I be happy with what I had, count my blessings and move on?

Katherine and I were two completely different people with two completely different sets of values. Katherine was whimsical, perky and light-hearted defined by a Martha Stuart palette of powder blues, pinks and floral arrangements.

Until Katherine came along, I didn’t know what the word whimsical meant. The word came up when she tried to tell me what kind of stuff she liked in her home. I actually had to ask her to explain the word whimsical to me.

Once I understood its meaning, I knew that I was the Anti-Christ of whimsical. I gravitate towards mute colours and images that were popular in the Middle Ages –gentle brown tones of mud mixed in with a dollop of existential or “*Eeyorian” angst. (*Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh)

I am more “whimsi-bleak” or “whimsi- the world is a *charnel house” kind of guy. (*Reference = Samual Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.)

I suppose if I asked Katherine what a charnel house was, she would reply, “Oh goody, I’m in the mood for a barbeque.”

Her Hugh Grant, Sandra Bullock-type film choices represented somewhat of a counterpoint to my Stalingrad, The Wehrmacht in Russia, Sin City or Gladiator preferences.

And finally, she loved her two cats the way I love my son, but my attitude towards pets (or people) is; if you can’t flush the toilet, get the hell out!

And so, you would think that breaking up with this woman would be a simple matter. Once broken up, I wouldn’t have to worry about my testicles being slashed by her jealous cats and I could watch whatever movie I wanted in my brown living room.

But it hasn’t been a simple matter. In fact, it’s been living hell. Sometimes I lay on the floor, unable to focus on much. Well, I can do this; Face flattened on the floor, I try to differentiate between the carpet fibres and carpet mites.

Why so f***ed up? My Ex and I may not have been soul mates (whatever the hell that is) but we sure as hell were once-in-a-lifetime sexmates.

Together Katherine and I had a wonderful, unabashed, deeply connected love life that was framed by a natural and mutual caring and trust.

Horizontal we were a match made in heaven and the relationship was effortless. Unfortunately, vertically, we were at odds and the relationship took work. We had a lot of fun together, a lot of laughs, and travelled well together, but our relationship, like many, could only succeed if you “checked in” a lot because we were very different kinds of people, defined by a different set of values.

But I didn’t check in a lot and we dissolved.

Here’s the conundrum. In any relationship, there is always something “qualitative” about the nature of your union. Consequently, there is always room for a sense of doubt. For example, “she does this well, but doesn’t do that well. He makes me happy this way, but not in that way”, etc. etc.

However, when you have a great love life together, that’s not qualitative, it’s absolute! And isn’t absoluteness exactly what we crave in our relationships? Extreme pleasure is absolute and addictive and life seems too short to live without it. Try harder I say.

So here’s the question-how far should we go to try to make a relationship work because you have a great sex life with your partner?

If you’re waiting for me to come up with an answer, forget it.

I haven’t a clue right now. I’m still talking to carpet mites.

How much do I miss sex with the Ex? Let me put it this way; “Katherine darling, it’s done. I’ve piled up all my brown furniture in the backyard together with my testosterone/war-themed DVDs. Got a match?”

Yes, I’m willing to compromise and try to have another go at our relationship, because a day doesn’t pass when I don’t think of my Ex, the road trips, the laughs and of course, our love life.

“Never give up on someone you can’t go a day without thinking about.” I read that from a stranger’s page on Facebook that was devoted to the millions of us suffering from a broken heart.

There’s another reason why I’m thinking of making contact with my Ex again. These words drifted into my head after I made a half-hearted effort to spend time with someone else; “After he kissed someone new, he found himself unintentionally whispering his Ex’s name, out loud, as if he were accepting the moment as a penance for his sins, rather than the celebration of life it was supposed to be.”

Just because I lie on the carpet floor, talk to mites and hear voices in my head doesn’t mean I’m haunted by my Ex does it?

Of course it does.

Feel free to contact Peter at peter@geronimocode.com

to tell him your own haunting story.

Related posts:

1. Single Parent Empty Nest Hard On The Heart
2. Only Love Can Break Your Heart
3. Peter Ehrlich’s New Bedtime Fantasy

By Peter Ehrlich
 I want to talk about my newest, ongoing, “driving me forward” sexual fantasy. This twisted new fantasy is the new fuel that has launched me to join yet another dating site and contact virtually every single woman between the ages of 42 and 52. I can go to any dating site now and know the bio of most Toronto women right down to their astrological sign. That’s how passionate I feel about doing whatever needs to be done to live my out this perverted dream.

Are you curious to know what the fantasy is?

I thought so, so with no further ado, here it is: A good woman, lying beside me in bed, in flannel pajamas, toes touching, heads propped up – reading together in silence.

(Ah yes, to be comfortable in your silence together. There is no better barometer for your relationship. The wonderful, kind and insightful Michael Kaufman once told me that – www.michaelkaufman.com.)

Nothing these days is turning me on more than that image. I don’t “take care of myself” to the vision of the image, rather, I may let out a sigh, exhaled under the cool abyss of my blankets. After the sigh, I turn on my side to embrace the only thing I can embrace – my pillow.

Sick eh? I’m a young baby-boomer. My sexual formative years happened during the golden age, a time before HIV, when every girl and they were just girls back then, was on the pill. Evolutionarily speaking, that time came and went in the blink of an eye. But I was in smack in the middle of it, acting out my fantasies like I was a young Caligula, but with a good heart. Back then, my penis made almost all of my life-decisions for me. I’m still playing catch-up.

What happened? I got older. I did. Two of The Beatles have long since passed and there’s no need for another notch on my bed.

A long time ago, I watched lonely, divorced, isolated detective Al Pacino pull up beside a hooker and ask her to get in. She then asked him what he had in mind. “I just want you to sleep with me”, and he handed her one hundred dollars. She was dumbfounded of course, but CUT TO: the hooker awake, spooning Al, who was fast asleep in a fetal position.

I remember what did Commodus told Lucilla in Gladiator when he was watching her son sleep; “He sleeps well, because he knows he is loved”. I never forgot that moment. And so, Al Pacino could finally sleep well. It mattered not that it was a hooker, all women, and I mean all women have a serious nurturing side that begs to be appreciated.

I’m in the mood to sleep well too now. I didn’t care back then. I do now.

My son Noah, nineteen, not only left the nest, but he’s trekking around in Chile and Costa Rica with his girlfriend. The bedroom I built for him stares back to me in mocking silence. His only presence is manifested by the maps of Chile on the wall so I can follow his wanderings from 5,000 miles away.

I never understood why the elderly fed pigeons. I do now.

I never understood the notion that as you got older, “companionship” becomes more important. I do now. It’s the stuff that we who have trod so many miles deserve and require to be happy.

I can go no further with this column without puffing out my chest to remind you, and myself, that when the primal calls for it, this Satyr is still enthusiastic about answering the siren call, to gallop on to fulfill said equestrian duty. But my “performance menu” for an evening’s festivities and frolicking must now include “comfortable in silence” moments and that’s new.

There was a time in my single fatherhood where I could revel in my celibacy. That era is over with now.

Now it’s time to revel and live out my new bedtime fantasy – lying in bed with a “partner”, in flannel pajamas, toes touching, heads propped up, reading a good book, comfortable in our silence.

I feel so human today.

Feel free to contact  Peter at   peter@geronimocode.com

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