I’m certainly not a brave person.  I don’t give the asshole yuppies where I live the shit they deserve at our local Starbucks, when they drop doors on me, smoke near children (not just mine) or just stare at the grown man with a heavy beard who’s home during the day with a kid.

But I wish that, every once in a while, I’d get a little credit for the few brave things I have done and, occasionally, do.

I don’t think that moving half-way across the country to live in a new town, in a new state, at a new university is without bravery.  I don’t know a lot of people who have done that, at least, not off-campus as a “grown-up” and all that.

I think that bailing out of the workforce and getting lots of shit for doing it just as I became a Dr. was not the most cowardly thing to do.  The not-brave thing would be to do what everyone else does.  And that’s not getting a PhD or making a lot of sacrifices to be home with our daughter.

It’s even been suggested that our car-free-ness was a cowardly, weak, misguided choice.  We gave a dealer our car and $6,600 cash and went home in a semi-rural area.  These days, it’s not always easy to get around in an old city like Baltimore on foot/bus/bike, especially not with a kid.  But I get no credit.  It’s just a pain in the ass to some people, a phase to others.  It’s been 6 years, and I’m the only one in our household with a licence.  We’re not going back on our car-free carE-free-ness.

When other people have me feeling like a coward, I try to remember that we not only make brave choices and brave sacrifices to make these choices work.  Making choices at all that are not just getting a box in the county and working many jobs for our many cars and huge child-care bills — that’s pretty brave.  I’m not calling my suburban-car-driving-working-parents cowards.  It’s making choices that’s brave sometimes.  I think. Not the content of that particular choice. Or something.

I don’t know why I feel the need for the occasional pat on the back, though. It makes no sense.

1) Our charming and old apartment is as drafty as a mother-of-26′s baby canal.  (How dirty!  I have a sinus headache and Charlotte broke my neti pot.  It happens.)

2) Our neighbor is so disgustingly stinky that we need to prop the outside door open.  Warmer weather means that the building gets less cold (not that it’s warm anyway) and that other folks are less likely to close it.

3) I am feeling my age and am achy from lack of good nutrition, lack of exercise and lack of not being a fatass.

People are pissed.  She’s started her own drama (just when it seems like she should put her head down and be quiet).  The manager is siding with her for some reason.

We’re house-hunting, listening to people vent, mad that the manager basically called my wife a liar but biding our time.

Still, it’s messed up that I have to weather-strip my door to keep out either the cold from the open front door or the fumes of someone who’s really too young to be that completely smoked out.  I shouldn’t have to deal with smoke coming into the hallway right outside Charlotte’s room.

As much as I’ll miss it (and you can hold me to that), I’m finished with this communal living shit.

Let’s all review what the word BEST means, Okay?

Also (and this is entirely THIRD PARTY, about a giver and receiver who are not this guy), why would you want to publicly rank your friends on Facebook?

“went for waffelz [sic] wiht [sic] besties then to walmart and home  to watch tv [sic sic sic]”

Let’s ignore the spelling and punctuation on Facebook that kills me a little inside every time I read the stream of people I wish I could unfriend without creating real life drama.  But what this person (a friend of a friend) said to another person (a friend of mine) means:

“I like this fatass I went to get waffles with more than I like you.  And also, I plan my shopping around my ass-growing television watching.”

For me, well, my besties are related to me, by blood and marriage, and they don’t need confirmation of BESTY status on Facebook.

Still, shit, when someone calls you/me a besty on Facebook, don’t you get all warm inside?

Shit.

I think it’s funny.

I’ve thought of mooning her, taking her picture and then mailing it to her, asking her for Grey Poupon, etc.  But that’s more out-going than I really am.

For now, I just laugh about the feeling of being spied on by someone who probably doesn’t even know that any of the three of us exists.

There were some very nice seasonal events, too many to list, actually.  I don’t mean to say that I didn’t have a lovely holiday.  It was just fast.  Really fast.

And it reminds me of the truest thing every parent has told me about raising a child.  It flies by!  Charlotte is closer to 21 months old than 20, and she walks and talks and has favorite toys and programs and movies.

I should use one of my favorite Christmas presents (a new camera!) to take pictures of some of my favorite of Charlotte’s presents (is that a sentence?).  She’s got a huge collection of Sesame Street figures (and the accessories) that she calls her “guys” after what I called them.  She sitting there playing with them now.

Now: winter.  And my century-old apartment is so drafty that the heat literally will not turn off.  Instead of the whole shebang turning on and off, the system stays on while the “auxiliary heat” comes on and off.  I shudder to think of our electric bill and environmental impact.  We console ourselves with the fact that we won’t be here next winter.

Also, holy shit, also if you fucking CHEW TOBACCO and leave the tub in the communal trashcan that’s seven feet from your fucking apartment door.

Seriously?  It’s almost 2012.  You fucking CHEW?  Wow.  Am I judging people who chew and saying that they are crazy and/or stupid?  Yes.  If you are or were foolish enough to start chewing tobacco, you are fucking stupid.

And a smoke detector keeps going off.  My new neighbor?  (Fuck.)

Maybe it’s a MAN thing?  Like how we don’t “express” ourselves or something?

Even the pile of presents (Okay, the two piles of presents) for Charlotte from “Santa” smack of the, “I love you; so I bought you this,” Christmas.  Where did that come from?  Sure, we had presents out the ass when I was little.  But we had a huge family Christmas party on Christmas Eve and Santa and cookies and church and togetherness.  It was a lot more than presents.

I blame working at the mall my last two years of college.  I worked at a bookstore, and we ran the calendar kiosk.  I was famous for being able to “man” that huge display all day without getting sick of it.  Well, there was this terrible non-religious Christmas “music” they used to play.  I think that shit messed with my brain chemistry.  Seriously.  I still can’t look at calendars, especially not ones with dogs or trucks on them.  And last weekend, the mall had NO MUSIC PLAYING, and I felt like going batshit the whole time.  It was eerie.  The weekend before Christmas, and the place was packed.  And I was creeped out because I thought it was too quiet.

Yes, it was Towson Town Center that make me a present whore.  That’s it.

Really, though, my gift to myself was a bottle of Jack with matching glasses thrown in for free.  Seriously.  Because who can’t use some help getting through the holidays?

Merry Christmas Eve.  I am off to shower, drink coffee and watch A Christmas Story with my cuddly wife.

Also busy with holiday tasks and house-hunting.  We’ve seen about a dozen houses.  We like one or two.  We love one.

And: adventures in snow globe making.  Not sure how it’s going to work out, though.  Pictures if it does.

This necessitated looking at photos from the summer, fall and winter.  The Charlotte running around Boston with a shock of curly hair seems like another kid, someone else’s baby who couldn’t talk yet and who was not yet a chocoholic.  Even photos from the fall look like a million years ago.

To sum up:

Charlotte now asks for what she wants.  Okay, she says, “Ah want tea,” in the morning.  No manners yet.  But articulate speech at her age and knowing what she wants and knowing when she’s pooped and about to poop are all pretty impressive for her age. Not to mention that she knows her colors, her family members and a thousand and sixty-seven words.

She has music she likes.  And shows/characters.  Oh, Holy Mother of Sesame Street, mornings on PBS are fun.  Seriously.  Totally.  No shit.

She likes to tease and play jokes on people.

She’s much less afraid of people she doesn’t know.  She likes to hug everyone — almost.

She’s incredibly affectionate.  She hugs and wants hugs and kisses and wants kisses and cuddles and wants cuddles.  I’ve even been able to grow my beard back since she gives Daddy his kisses now no matter what.

We are lucky people.

I’ve worked with manufacturers/purveyors on promotions (usually review copies/products) on the pencil blog, but never on this blog in its nearly 8-year existence.  But Kishan from Maxton Men has an offer that’s too good to refuse.  Maxton Men is a new online shop featuring gifts for men that has free shipping and is just starting out.  Anyone that sells Field Notes with free shipping has a place in my bookmarks.

Buy anything from the “Office” section and use the promotion code PRAGMATIK to get 15% off until the 20th.  So what? you say?

Field Notes, brothers (and sisters), 15% off, free shipping.  They even have a few special editions and only charge $9 for regular ones.  (Also Le Pens, which seem to be making a welcome come-back.)

Go forth, and get the best deal on Field Notes I’ve seen.  And tell ‘em who sent you.

(For giving  you the deals, dear readings, one of you should send me a pack of the American Tradesman edition for home improvements at the house we’ll be purchasing in the coming months.  Just saying.)