Steely Dad

Let me be honest. I’m not a “charity” sucker. What I mean is that I just don’t throw money at an organization called “Save the Children” or “Pets are People Too” or, as in the case of George Costanza, “The Human Fund.” Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the effort many organizations make on behalf of their constituents but after working for a non-profit in the past, I’m a bit jaded for I saw first-hand the level of profligate waste that occurs. All too often a majority of the money intended for the “cause” becomes the salary of the executive director and that just breaks my heart. I’m also reluctant to get involved in something that requires me to solicit funds. Don’t ask me why but I’ve always had an aversion to asking friends for money. It makes me uncomfortable. So unless the charity is a cause in which I truly believe and unless it’s a struggle with which I can identify, unless it’s an organization that doesn’t have a minimum contribution and is appreciative of every penny, I’m not interested. Sorry but that’s how I feel. Also, I want to know that my money and effort, as well as that of the people I solicit, is making the difference it intended to make and isn’t going toward paying the CEO’s BMW bill.

Such a charity does exist.

The Steely Clan has teamed up with Stash’s Restaurant and Grill to join the fight against childhood cancer by sponsoring an Alex’s Lemonade Stand fundraiser. Yup, we’ll be manning the stand, serving up the finest pre-mixed lemonade that’s guaranteed to wet your whistle. You can learn all about the endeavor on our fundraising page by clicking this link:

Steely Wife put us down for $720 as our official goal. How she came to this random number I’ll never know. I think she researched the Farmer’s Almanac to determine weather conditions and then divided the ultra-violet coefficient by the thirst denominator. Anyhow,  I told her that the Steely Dad Nation is made up of truly generous members whose munificence cannot be overstated. Between me and you guys, I’d like to make it an even grand. I don’t know, it just looks prettier to me.

Now get this: $.90 of every dollar raised goes directly to the organization’s mission. Yea, that’s right. Only $.10 of every dollar goes to paying administrative costs  so rest assured the money raised will go directly to Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation for Childhood Cancer, a 501(c)3 public charity, to fund childhood cancer research projects across the country. The mission of Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation is to raise funds and awareness of childhood cancer causes; primarily to support research into new cures and treatments; to encourage and educate others, especially children; to raise money for childhood cancer by holding their own lemonade stands and to expedite the process of finding new cures and bringing them to children currently engaged in their own noble battle against cancer.

Did you guys know that childhood cancer is the leading cause death by disease for children in the United States? I didn’t but I for one cannot ignore this statistic impacting the youth of our country and I certainly hope that you won’t either. Let’s face it. As parents all we really want is to watch our kids grow up to be happy, healthy people. To that end, we need your help.

Please help support our efforts and this critically important cause by making a monetary contribution. Simply click on the LEMON on the right-hand side of our fundraising page where it says, “DONATE.” We honestly don’t care if it’s $1 or $100. It all matters and it all counts. Times are tough all over and if you think your wallet is looking emaciated these days you should take a look at those of the non-profit sector. I know our family doesn’t have tons of extra dough right now but we still want to do our part. You can do yours by making a donation online, visit an upcoming event or mail your donation.

Thanking you guys in advance.

May 8, 2009

Dave Magruder

c/o God

1  Huge Surf Dr.

Heaven, Universe 00001

Dear Dave,

It’s been a long time man and for that I am truly sorry.  It makes me sad to think that something as tragic as your last goodbye was the motivation for writing you.   Why life plays out like this I’ll never know.  I’m sure where you’re hanging you have access to all of life’s mysteries.

As you know, we met in college at the University of San Diego after I transferred there from UCLA.  We were the same age but I was a semester or so behind you in credits due to taking some time off between schools.  When one of my high school buds, Bumper, suggested that I affiliate with the USD Sigma Chi chapter, I thought to myself (or maybe I even said it out loud to him), “Why the hell would I want to do that?  What am I going to have in common with these dudes from USD?”  After meeting guys like you I felt like I belonged.  You helped make me feel accepted.

I realize we were never “best buds” per se as you certainly had many friends with whom you shared a majority of your time.  Ours was a relationship of hanging at parties or playing guitars on occasion.  Nevertheless, there are a few very poignant encounters we shared that will forever hold a special place in my overdrawn memory bank.  Perhaps you remember them as well but I doubt, until now, you understood the deep significance that each of these stories holds for me.  Mea culpa.

During my senior year, I had to take an algebra class in order to graduate. Though I took calculus in high school, I had forgotten basically everything except basic arithmetic.  I’m sure you had far better things to do with your time but you came over to my pad and helped me prepare for the final.  You solved every equation with great alacrity and I remember looking at you with genuine admiration.  I thought you were the Nureyev of mathematics.  What stands out in my mind was your unbending patience that was no doubt challenged by my constant barrage of stupid questions. You also displayed a unique ability to break it all down to a level that even I could understand.  Suffice to say, I passed the class and received my degree.  Please know that a small, but significant, portion of my degree belongs to you.

You know how people can tell you where they were when JFK was shot or when the events of 9/11 unfolded?  Well I know exactly where I was when I heard that Kurt Cobain had shot himself and I recall with perfect clarity the person who delivered the news.  I was walking across Marian Way from the library and you stopped me on the island that divides the street.  You told me what happened and I couldn’t believe what you were saying.  I remember thinking you must’ve heard wrong and that I’d need to get more information before I’d accept this as fact.  I had a similar experience when I learned of your passing.  I was cruising Facebook (where we had recently reconnected) when I read perhaps the saddest news my eyes have ever had to endure.  I went directly to your FB profile as well as a page another friend started for you. As I read all the beautiful messages left by your friends, I simply couldn’t believe what I was reading. I know for certain that I didn’t want to accept it. Have you ever noticed how when people experience shock they often cover their mouths with a hand?  I’ve always thought that was such a curious thing to do.  However, after reading the initial message, I realized that I had my hand over my mouth.  I never consciously put it there.  I was in total shock.

Here’s the last, and perhaps most seminal, experience I ever shared with you.  My senior year in college was a true challenge for me, not from an academic perspective but from an emotional one.  I was in a seriously deep funk when my girlfriend and I broke it off after five years.  I was very close to her and her family and it was like going through a divorce all over again (my parents divorced when I was eight).  It sucked.  I couldn’t eat, I came down with shingles and I had several other health issues.  I was a complete mess. I’ve never shared this with anyone but I’m going to do so with you now.  You see, the friends upon whom I thought I could rely for support, those who’d been in my life for years, since I was a kid, couldn’t be bothered with me.  For example, when all the bros went down to San Felipe, no one invited me to join them.  It seemed as though no one wanted to be my friend.  I was hurt and it only served to compound the pain I so desperately was trying to numb.  I don’t know why but you called and asked if I wanted to hop on board your VW bus and take a trip south.  I declined because at that point I felt rejected and I really wasn’t much in the mood for partying.  I only wished to retreat to my loneliness.  Perhaps sensing my sadness, you didn’t take “no” for an answer. In fact, you basically came over and kidnapped my sorry ass.  I left with only the clothes on my back.

I’ll always remember driving at night, charging to Felipe in your bus.  A couple of girls were also passengers in the bus (which I believe was a Westfalia, right?).  Who they were I don’t recall.  I wasn’t there to hang with them; I was there because one of the coolest dudes I’ve ever known kidnapped me to Mexico.  I seriously felt like a king when I was around you.

I remember how we got turned around, an error that added two hours to our trip.  It wasn’t your fault.  The sign we were supposed to see, made of the finest Mexican cardboard, was invisible in the pitch black darkness.  No one was even remotely upset.  We were having a great time just driving, just being, just licking our lips at the prospect of what unknown adventure lie ahead.  I laugh aloud thinking how, at one point, you had the genius idea to drive with the headlights turned off.  It wasn’t long before the cops, suspecting us for coyotes or drug runners, pulled us over.  After that, you decided it best to drive with the headlights turned on.  Smart decision.

What made you call me?  How did you know I was hurting so badly?  Why did you want to be my friend when no one else entertained such motivations? You were Mr. Popular and I wasn’t.  There really wasn’t anything in it for you. But like a brother I never had, you picked me up when I was at my lowest and your perma-grin actually made me smile as well.  I knew I had at least one good friend and that was more than I felt I deserved.

And so when I think of you in your darkest moment, just as you swallowed your final breath, I wonder if you felt lonely or if you felt loved?  Did you think of your wife, your kids, your family and friends?  What does a man think about before he accepts a meeting with his maker?  I wonder what word I was typing on my blog just as your eye lids made their final decent.  It rips at my heart to know that you may have needed a friend and I was never able to reciprocate your genuine and unconditional kindness.

Since I can’t pay you back my only option is to  pay you forward by letting the world know Dave Magruder, at least the one I knew.  I realize my fledgling dad blog is not the most effective vehicle in which to reach a mass audience but it’s the best I can do, for now. You being the consummate teacher, I’ve learned many lessons from your untimely passing, lessons I hope to pass along to my kids and anyone else who cares to listen.  I’ve learned to make amends with those whom I may have quarreled over petty issues.  I’ve learned never to squander an opportunity to kiss and hug my kids, wife and loved ones.  I’ve learned that some of the best friends can come in and out of your life like a comet but they are no less deserving of the title, “friend.”  I’ve learned that life is simply too short not to make the most of it and I’ve learned that friendship, no matter in what form, is eternal.  Friendship, unlike family, is a choice and the fact that you chose to be my friend is a precious gift I will forever cherish.  Rest well, my friend, for yours is a legacy of love.

In hoc,

Todd (AKA Steely Dad)

Let me just right down to it. After all, I am not above pandering if that is required.

Being a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) can be a lonely (even the acronym is depressing), thankless and at times a frightening job. There’s no one there to offer you an “at-a-boy” when you do a good job. In fact, being a SAHD is the type of job in which you only hear feedback when you’re fucking things up. To be blunt, I rarely, if ever, receive any sort of validation unless by “validation” you mean being pooped on or asked “why” 1,000 times a day.

I surely don’t receive any accolades from peers or other adults (although I use the term “adult” quite loosely when describing myself). Rather, I usually receive judgments and mean stares. Many times it just plane blows.

To be clear, I’m not asking for your sympathy, your donations or your shrink’s contact information. I’m only looking for your vote.

What vote?

Well, I’ve been recently nominated by Blogger’s Choice Awards for my work on Steely Dad. Unlike those morons at the Academy Awards, I am not honored to just be nominated. As Ignacio in Nacho Libre so eloquently put it, I Wanna Wheen!

Here are a few of my campaign promises. Should I win:

I promise to fix the economy. (I can’t even write that with a straight face.)

I will not torture.  (Contrary to what some of you might think, making you read my blog has NOT been deemed an instrument of torture under the Geneva Conventions.)

I will not accept contributions from special interests.  (Not-so-special interests are fair game)

And I will reform and become more transparent.  (That’s actually more of a threat than a promise)

So Steely Dad Nation, can you throw me a bone and help me feel a sense of validation no matter how fleeting? Can you help me reach blogger immortality? Can you help me achieve my pathetic dream of being recognized for work for which I do not get paid? To you it’s just a tiny little vote but for me it means so much more. Please don’t feel guilty if you believe clicking on one of the conveniently located links below requires just too much effort. I understand. It is rather tiresome to click on a link. If you think you don’t need to vote for me because all my other friends will do so please keep in mind I have very few friends (certainly not enough to stuff the ballot box) and those that I do have are either ineligible to vote due to being incarcerated, are still in rehab or are too drunk to read this posting. However, if you believe I suck and am not deserving of such esteemed recognition, please just put those feelings aside for one second and vote for me because I’ll stop whining and begging and perhaps stem the flow of my draining dignity.

After all, I am nothing without my pride.

Vote for me in all four categories and win a trip to an undisclosed location (ARV = $0.00).

Let the clicking begin!

Ever watch the Discovery Channel show, I Shouldn’t Be Alive? It’s a program that reenacts real-life survival situations of average people (unlike survivor specialists Survivorman and Man v Wild). It’s compelling TV and I for one give it the Steely Dad thumbs up.

The producers of that show should do an episode on my recent survival experience.

No, I wasn’t caught in an avalanche subsisting only on pee-laden snow and no, I wasn’t stranded on the African plains surviving on elephant dung while fending off attacks from lions with a spear fashioned from the elastic band of my underwear and a filed-down button. No, my friends, this experience was much more harrowing than the aforementioned scenarios.

My survival experience involved four days of long treks, screaming kids, rude people, crappy food and massive crowds at The Happiest Place on Earth, otherwise known as Disneyland.

If you’ve ever been to Disneyland then you know precisely the survivor skills required to get out alive (and without having to file bankruptcy upon your return to civilization). One must be able to tolerate the searing pain of having countless strollers, some of them double-wides, rolled over your minimally-protected feet. One must be able to stand for long periods of time with antsy kids in lines that seem miles long. One must be able to stomach super-fried edibles without getting a violent case of the squirts that rivals Giardia. To be sure, one must be able to take being knocked and pushed around by large swarms of humanity without going postal. In addition, and this is perhaps the most crucial Disneyland survival skill, one must be able to distract the kids long enough to avoid spending huge sums of cash in the kid-appealing souvenir shops one will encounter immediately exiting each and every ride and attraction. It is the most skilled survivor who can do this without triggering an all-out flailing episode.

In addition to these skills, my personal experience in Disneyland required a skill, nay, an adaptation that most Steely Dad readers will find they already possess. For me, a supremely brave man who has always stared death and danger directly in the eye, I have to enter into an ecstatic trance in order to get my butt on…roller coasters. Anyone who knows me knows this about me. Roller coasters are my kryptonite, my Achilles Heel, my sole lapse in an otherwise armor-like aura. My phobia of roller coasters is the culmination of two traumatic events in my life. The first I attribute to a prenatal trauma when “Mom the Daredevil” went on a ride during my fragile gestational period that resulted in my mom hurling chunks. This incident occurred during the 70s, before they had signs warning pregnant women that going on coasters was a stupid idea. In fact, my mom’s experience set a precedent requiring all amusement parks to post the pregnant woman warning signs. The other trauma happened when my parents took me to a local fair run by a family of gypsies. You know the type where the operator of the ride has a patch over one eye and lacks any evidence that his mouth once housed teeth. Well, the ride I was on broke down and it caused a minor panic in the parents and a major one in me.

I could go on describing the depth of my phobia but it would require time better spent on other endeavors, like wrapping up this blog post. The point is, I’m deathly afraid of roller coasters. However, my three-year-old son (as well as my one-year-old daughter, who went on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride) LOVES roller coasters. Ever since I took him on this wimpy ride at Legoland when he was two, he has been addicted to rides. Well, I must say that after four days at Disneyland not only was I able to control my fear of Disney’s relatively tame coasters I actually began to enjoy them. With Steely Son, we hit up Thunder Mountain (his personal favorite) about 20 times, Space Mountain four times and a few rides on the famous Matterhorn. So how’d I do it? How did I adopt this unique survival skill? Bottom line: I had to Dad up and be there for my boy. That’s what dads do.

Am I ready for the panic-inducing rides at places like Six Flags? Not a chance. What will I do when he’s ready for those rides? I’ll do what any other courageous dad would do: have his mommy take him.

Well yesterday the yentas read my most recent blog posting and, long story short, I’m lucky to have made it out of the Den alive. To be sure, I expected a steady trickling of the yentas reading the blog entry and passing it along within the ranks. I figured this would defuse any mass protest from the yentas. In addition, I anticipated that time and other distractions would help make the memory of my posting fade away and defuse the motivation for a group blitzkrieg. However, mine was an error of underestimation, a military blunder, a faulty strategy. To my dismay, one of the yentas actually pulled up the blog on her smart phone and read it aloud to the entire gathering, which was considerable. Did I mention that she did this whilst I was in the Den? I felt like the monster in Frankenstein when the townspeople formed an angry mob, armed with torches and pitchforks, to attack the source of their nightmare. The yentas began to bare their fangs and claws. It was a frightening sight.

There I was, alone, inside the lion’s den, unarmed and unprepared. To say I was scared is a gross understatement. I knew I could not subdue the crowd with brute force. Their numbers were too strong for such an approach. I had to rely on la lengua de plata. It took some pretty savvy diplomatic maneuvers to quell the yentas and avert an attack. Shoot, I should be the Secretary of State.

The yentas cornered me and attempted to force a cease-and-desist order upon my blog, and more specifically, postings about their secret society. I am adamantly opposed to censorship of any type so I calmly but unequivocally explained that I had an obligation to the Steely Dad Nation and that I would not be able to fulfill their unreasonable request. (I have learned that the yentas can sense the slightest bit of fear so it’s best to develop an air, however manufactured, of confidence.) After much debate and negotiation, we came to an understanding: I can continue to write my blogs as well as stories about the Den of Yentas but I do so at my own peril. For you, the reader, I am willing to accept this as an occupational hazard.

Now when you read Steely Dad, understand that I am assuming tremendous risk on my life to bring you the juice. But this is the greatest story that must be told.