I often host the cable access show Atheists Talk. New episodes are recorded on the second Thursday of each month. This evening marked my 66th episode as  host. It was my tenth occasion being on the show in January, and 75th overall, if I include my times as a guest.

As the crew MacGyvered a solution to a camera issue, one of the two interviewees – and they both came on the show at their behest to discuss Camp Quest – remarked that she is nervous about the impending administrative changes in Washington. The other guest shrugged his shoulders. “Eh,” he said, trying to offer a positive lilt to the inevitable disaster, “I still have hope. Hope in humanity.”

“Not me,” I said, and they both turned to look at me. “I’m just gonna sit outside and play my fiddle while the city burns.” There was a palpable pause; I think they were waiting for a punchline or a smirk to slide across my visage, but neither came. “There was a time for hope, but it’s over now. We had a good run, and it’s over.” I’m a realist, not an optimist. The man said something to me, but the crew had initiated the countdown for the recording to begin and, besides, I had Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” earwormed in my brain, so I couldn’t really pay attention.

Isla came with me to the cable show. Jennifer is less incensed when I leave on a weeknight if I at least bring one of the kids in tow. And since one of them has Jiu Jitsu class on Thursday evenings, and another one is only two years old, there remains only one realistic option. She sat in the annex, on my laptop, watching The Secret World of Arrietty. During the drive home, she asked me if, when having one’s ears pierced, small disks of skin are punched out of the lobes, or if the flesh merely moves aside to make way for the metal studs.

Culling from my deep well of auricle accoutrements, I said, “Uh, I think the skin just moves aside.”

There was silence, so I continued, “You think about ear piercings every once in while, don’t you?”

She said she did, and then added that she wasn’t sure if she really wanted her ears pierced or if she just wanted to be like other girls she sees.

“Well,” I said as we exited the highway, “That can be a good reason to do something. There are a lot of things I do just because other people do them. But for bigger things, it’s probably good to make sure you really want to do them.”

Isla said, “It’s kind of like the only person who really wanted to get their ears pierced was the very first person who got their ears pierced.” Then she asked me again if I ever got my ears pierced. I reminded her I did not – in fact, I’m flatly opposed to any sort of bodily modification that isn’t clearly corrective. I don’t even like earrings – I think women are better-looking without them. I had braces on my teeth when I was a preteen, and I still curse my parents for that rancid decision. Circumcision must rank among the ten dumbest practices our barbaric culture approves of – there was no question Jennifer and I wouldn’t submit our sons to that ritual. And I can’t even bring myself to get a tattoo with my kids’ names, even though I’ve mildly considered it a hundred times in the last decade.

So when Isla asked if I think she should get her ears pierced, I provided her with my standard, nuanced answer, “No.”

“What age should I be?” she asked.

“I think you should be at an age where you are old enough to be sure that that’s something you really want to do, and to be able to understand all the good sides and bad sides.”

“But what age is that?” she persisted, looking for a number.

“Hm…I’m not sure. Probably at least 42,” which, I think, was a fair answer coming from someone who is 41 and a half.

Jennifer drove the kids to school today. I usually do that on days I work from home, but she did it this morning. The large benefit to that was that I didn’t have to drive in all the snow that parked on our city overnight. Staying home also fit squarely with another of my New Year’s resolutions-goals.

Not that I stayed home all day. I ventured into the monochrome wilderness in the mid-afternoon to pick up the oldest two from school. They attend the same school which is an appreciably positive alteration from last school year.

On the drive-slide to their school, I phoned my dad. As a testament to my unyielding good judgement, I somehow figured being on the phone would be a smart thing to do while driving on slippery boulevards.

Sunday was my dad and stepmom’s anniversary. I always call them on their anniversary, and I usually have a gift arriving in their mailbox within a day or so of the eighth. This is upsettlingly difficult to remember. In my defense, I spend most of December thinking, “Oh, dad’s anniversary? That’s not ’til next year.” And since I don’t emerge from my cave until the second or third of January, I have to prove competent enough on that day to buy them a gift, buy them a card, fill out the card, and get it to the post office right then. Otherwise, it’s already too late. There’s something about the US mail once it hits the Floridian frontier: it begins to go as slow as its residents.

Also in my defense, I spent the day of their 16th anniversary in the chaotic environment of a Lego League competition, followed directly by the low of consoling a son whose team should’ve moved on to state, all on a day in which I never once wrote down the date.

Yesterday, at work, when I wrote “09Jan17,” my mind spun: I missed my dad’s anniversary. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I’m the person who tells my wife, “It was 8 years ago today that we left for our trip to Prince Edward Island,” and “As of today, Isla is the exact age that Owen was on the day she was born.” And I remember dates of public significance, too. I spend at least some part of every December 8th thinking about John Lennon, and recalling a 45-second conversation my kindergarten teacher had with the class the following morning. And I tell people things like, “As of today, this is the longest our nation has gone without a vacancy in the vice presidency.” Or, at least, I used to tell people things like that. After forty years, I noticed such statements fell on apathetic ears.

So I called my dad yesterday – while I was at work – as soon as I was made aware of my gross gaffe. He didn’t answer. So I called him again, three hours and four minutes later, while I was driving home. Again, no answer. So I left him a message. But he didn’t call back.

So I called my dad today – while driving to my kids’ school – and this time he answered. Despite it being 4:00 in Florida, he sounded half asleep, and complained he was tired. He sounded surprised I had called him, as if I’d caught him in the middle of some clandestine act. He cleared his throat more often than used to, but what bugged me was the way he finished each sentence like he was trying to end the call. After four sentences, he asked why I was calling, and I told him I was calling to wish him happy anniversary. “Well, thanks for calling, he said,” and left his words hanging, as if trying to corral me into saying goodbye.

Then I asked him if him and Bonnie did anything special for their anniversary, and he sullenly said they’re too old for anything like that. As if a guy in his mid-sixties and a woman in her fifties can’t even go out to dinner. “But I appreciate you calling,” he added.

So then I just decided to tell him about Lego League, just so there was something to discuss. He knows Owen the best – Owen’s been to his house – so I assume of all my kids, he’s most interested in Owen. Certainly it wouldn’t be Isla, who he hardly knows, or Emmett, who he hasn’t even met. “Oh, that’s interesting,” my dad said at the tail end of my two-minute monologue about the competition, “Well, thanks for calling.”

Lately, I feel I can hardly maintain my end of a conversation even when both parties are desirous of its continuation, so I assuredly couldn’t keep this up much longer. So I said goodbye, and as I hung up, I found myself hoping I’m more the grandparent like the Home Depot patron who jump starts strangers cars, rather than the the kind who lives across country from my children’s children and don’t even know of the procession of their lives.

This evening, I sat lengthwise on the couch, with the honeycomb blinds drawn up only on the window that faces my little free library. I love watching snow quietly fall in the dark and lilt over the Xmas lights on the library until each bulb is a blurry glow of blue, and the library’s roof becomes a monochromatic canopy of white – perfectly domes with sloping sides. As I stared outside, Jennifer told me I should stay home from work tomorrow instead of risking the roads on a treacherous morning. I don’t want to miss my Toastmasters meeting at work, but I had to concede that staying home would assist me in achieving my resolution for the new year. My resolution of being lazy.

Today was mostly spent at Owen’s Lego League Regional Championship.

Last year, his team – organized through his elementary school – first participated at the regional championship, then moved on to the state championship. His coach explained to me that St. Paul public schools kind of get a free pass: they don’t have to first compete in the sectional challenges like all the other teams. The reason, he said, is because the St. Paul schools don’t start their clubs until mid-cyear.

But this year, he’s not in elementary school anymore, so his team first had to compete in the sectionals. They did, and they were awarded the chance to move on. So, today, here I am at a middle school in New Brighton.

One of the other teammate’s parents picked up Owen early this morning, and then I arrived at the school around 10:00. Like last year, I volunteered to help out with the competitions. Upon entering the school – a building I had never been in before – I wasn’t sure where to go. I wandered around until I found a bunch of volunteers, and then asked them where I was supposed to go. They didn’t know, but they pointed me in a direction anyway. So I headed that was and eventually located the auditorium. I walked over to a table where some judges were entering numbers onto laptops, and one of those judges pointed me to a gray-haired man standing near a competition table.

Looking up at him through all my winter gear – which was starting to make me sweat – I informed the man that I was a volunteer, and that I had signed up to help reset the tables after each round. “Yeah…” he said slowly, looking around at the three tables and scratching his face, “I think we’re pretty well covered right now…” he left his sentence hanging.

“Well, is there anything else I can do? I got here early, and drove separately from my wife just so I could volunteer.”

He held up his hand as if he’d had enough of me and said, “Sir, we’re all volunteers here, okay?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just stared at him waiting for him to say something I could respond to. Finally, he added, “I’ll tell you what, you see those two guys over there?” He pointed to a couple of boys that looked about the same age as my son. “They’re just kinda hanging around here helpin’ out where they can. Why don’t you see if they have anything for you.”

I said okay, but I lied. I walked toward the boys, but then turned and went out of the auditorium. I have an extreme aversion to pity work. If you don’t need my help, that’s okay, you don’t have to fabricate work for me.

In fact, I have a history with this sort of thing. A history comprised of one other story. When I was a mid-teen Jehovah’s Witness, an elder from my congregation had the job of rounding up sufficient number of willing God-fearers to volunteer as attendants at the local conventions. When he asked me if I would be willing, I couldn’t accept fast enough. Such an honor for a fifteen-year-old! And, regardless, it was really bad form to turn down any job even low-level Watchtower superiors tapped you for.

On the day of the convention, I reported for duty at the attendants’ office. They said they had all the help they needed, but that I should probably go talk to the head attendant in the cafeteria. I did, and he said his sub-department was likewise well-staffed, but that maybe I could find an oldster who appeared too feeble to stand in line for food, take their order, then go get their food. So I found some octogenarian, who was nearly overwhelmed with delight as I took her order. Then I stood in line. And waited. And waited. Ultimately, the attendant-in-charge-of-all-things-cafeteria strode over to me and said, “What are you doing?”

A smidge befuddled, I explained I was doing exactly what he told me to do.

“No,” he clarified, “Don’t wait in line. That’ll take too long. Just go behind the counter and get her meal.”

So I did. But then the attendant-in-charge-of-all-things-food poked me on the shoulder and said, “What are you doing?” In what certainly must have been obvious to everyone but me, it turns out that volunteers who are hectically gathering and dispensing packaged food to a thousand hungry Witnesses do not want someone who doesn’t know where anything is wandering in their zone, especially if he’s not wearing gloves or an apron.

Six months later, the elder again asked me if I was willing to volunteer. I told him no, and once he reeled back in his disdained amazement, he requested a reason. “Because,” I explained flatly, “you didn’t really need me last time, so I think there were too many attendants.”

Anyway, six hours later, Owen’s team first won a trophy for winning the best score in the morning trials, then won a second trophy for lasting to the final heat of the head-to-head competitions and garnering the top score in that, too.

But did they pass on to state? No, they didn’t. It turns out that a team can get the top score in the two most prestigious events of the day and still not be considered one of the best teams in the competition.

Today was probably the toughest day so far.

I made it through the work semi-week easy enough. This included making the mistake of checking the news for the first time in over two weeks to see just how fast our democracy is crumbling. The big news of the year so far seems to be that Mariah Carey put in a lackluster showing at the New Year’s Eve bash in Times Square, and Senators in Washington are trying to gut their code of ethics. I’m uncertain why either of these, in the truest sense, qualifies as “news,” since, by my estimation, it simply makes for the 27^th consecutive year of shitty performances by both.

Anyway, I couldn’t find neither my keys nor my Home Depot gift card this morning. Like every morning, my phone was out of power, too. So I used my spare key to drive Isla to Home Depot’s kids’ workshop, and I plugged my phone into the cigarette lighter to charge it on the way.

Despite Isla’s overindulgence in paint, the project – in which she built a small toolbox – proceeded smoothly. She got a certificate for completing the project, and her sixth pin, to affix to her apron. But then nothing proceeded smoothly. I took out my phone to take a picture of Isla holding up her new creation, but my phone was still without power.

“We’ll have to take the picture at home,” I told her. But she was insistent. “But I want a picture in front of the wood, like we always do,” she pleaded, pointing to the lumber.

So then I concocted the brilliant idea of going out to the car, plugging in the phone, then going back into the store to buy the items I wanted to buy, then going back out to the car to get the phone, then going back into the store to take the picture.

But the phone just would not charge. I even turned on the car’s battery…the phone just would not respond. So we went back in the store, and I recruited a willing employee to take Isla’s picture and then send me the image. Okay, so that went smoothly. Then I bought what we needed; still missing my gift card, I had to break down and pay. Then we went out to the car…only, we were locked out because I had left the key in the ignition. I reached for my spare key, but I didn’t have my spare key on me. The key in the ignition was the spare key. I went back in the store, asked to borrow a phone, called Jennifer, got no answer, then was directed to the tool rental department. The employee there went out to the car with me and tried using some universal key, but it didn’t work – neither in the door nor in the trunk. We went back into the store so he could hunt for a suitable device to shimmy into the door frame. Meanwhile, freezing Isla, who had somehow managed to lose her certificate, stayed in the store, on a chair, sipping hot cocoa.

Amazingly, the guy got the door open. I profusely thanked him – even got his name and promised to write his manager a complimentary note. Then I made a quick search for Isla’s certificate, failed, then obtained a replacement. Isla and I went back to the car. While she buckled, I put my spare key in the ignition, and discovered the battery – which I had left on – was now drained. Isla almost started crying, ‘til I – in an uncharacteristically calm manner – told her it wasn’t a big problem, we just had to find someone to help.

Serendipitously, the owner of the vehicle parked right next to mine was approaching his van right then. He was somewhat older than me, and had two young boys with him who – judging from the wooden toolboxes they had in tow – had likewise just completed the workshop. He said he would be happy to help me, then checked to see if he had jumper cables (mine were in my other vehicle…probably with my keys).

While we waited for the electrons to flow, I congratulated him on doing a good deed. He explained he had already done a good deed: He lives in Shakopee, but he drove to two other suburbs to pick up his two grandsons, then drove past the Home Depot in Bloomington to come to the one here in West St. Paul. He said this location has a better workshop experience. And he would know, today marked his older grandson’s 75^th pin.

After that, taking Isla to a bowling alley in Minneapolis for a birthday party was a calming event by comparison.

I have to applaud my employer for making the segue back to work after the holiday shutdown so easy this time. In past years, I’ve spent the final few days of the break dreading its ending; fretting the thought of plowing through snow and ice on my monumental commute in this worst month.

Okay, I guess I still feel that way, but it’s better this year. For one thing, Owen and Isla had to go back to school today. I dropped off Emmett at my sister-in-law’s house to be babysat for the day, and Jennifer and I went out on a date. We tried to see a movie at Marcus Theater, but when we got there, there were no tickets remaining. The cashier explained that most people buy their tickets online now, that way they can arrive late and not have to sit through all the commercials. This begs the question of why there are so many goddam commercials prior to a movie, and since an online ticket purchase comes with additional fees, it gives theater patrons the added “convenience” of paying even more for already bloated prices. Actually, there were two seats available, but they were on opposite sides of the theater, and in shitty locales. We told the cashier how stupid we thought this was, and we left.

Then we headed to a restaurant in downtown St. Paul, but it turns out that, as of 2017, the restaurant is now closed on Mondays. So then we went to another theater, bought tickets, then raced to a nearby restaurant for a middling meal, then raced back to the theater. Looking at her ticket as we walked down the hall toward the theater, Jennifer remarked how pathetic tickets now look. “They’re really cheapening the whole theater experience nowadays, aren’t they?” she said. I concurred. Movie theaters, like Tonka Trucks and the Guinness Book, are one of those things that have gotten noticeable worse since my childhood. Manchester By the Sea was a well-acted, plodding, depress-fest. Upon the film’s completion, the quasi-old man to my left expressed that “That might’ve been the saddest movie I’ve ever seen.”

Today, though, I’m back at work. But it’s a Tuesday, and I work from home on Tuesdays. So I’m slowly easing into being a grown-up this calendar year.