Don't ask: Taking the middle seat

In my ongoing Don't Ask series I've covered such hot-button issues as moving, watching your stuff, sharing a hotel room and loaning you money to name a few. In tonight's installment, I tackle a topic that makes me very uncomfortable. The middle seat.

The middle is a place I've never cared for much. Middle management. Middle America. Middle earth. Middle of the road. Thanks, but no (being a night owl, I don't mind the middle of the night, but we're going to table that for the purposes of this post).

Let's start at the movies. When I go with friends, often they like to sit dead center in the theater. Alledgedly the picture and sound are calibrated for the optimum movie-going experience in those seats. You know who doesn't have the optimum experience sitting there? Me. My comfort zone is on the aisle—right or left, center or side. Doesn't matter. I've been going to movies my whole life, and I don't feel like I've missed much by sitting on the aisle.

There's a method to my no-center-seat madness. For starters, I'm a not a small guy. I'm built for comfort, not for speed—at least that's what I used to tell my high school girlfriend. I don't like feeling crowded.

I also have the bladder of a three-year old. At some point he'll want it back, but until then I'm using it (I'll be here all week). Because of that inconvenient truth, I don't like having to crawl over strangers in the dark, potentially stepping on their toes or knocking over their stupid bag of popcorn that should've been in their lap instead of on the floor. But can I tell them that? I can't, because there's no talking during the movie. And besides, I don't have time to chat. I need to get to the bathroom.

The other place you'll never find me in the middle seat is on an airplane.

Being the pampered poodle I am, it's always my preference to fly in the front of the plane, where middle seats are imaginary, non-existent things like unicorns or responsible Republicans. People always ask me, "Isn't it really expensive to fly in the front of the plane?" I always give them the same answer: that's what the college fund is for.

But on those occasions where I do find myself in a three-seat row on the plane, my seat choice happens in this order: window, aisle or window or aisle in another row.

I don't fly in the middle seat. Ever. Not to sound mean, but I'm not switching to the middle so you can be closer to your wife who's sitting behind us. Or so you can put a little distance between you and your screaming baby. Not because you're scared of flying and my window/aisle seat would make it easier.

I used to be scared of flying, and look how good I am at it now. Know what helped me get over it? Not flying in the middle seat.

If you somehow find yourself traveling with me, or going to the movies, I promise we'll have a good time. But make sure you set your expectations ahead of time, because when it comes to where I'm sitting, there's no middle ground.

So don't ask.

Pregnant pause

As a freelance copywriter, you go through different seasons.

The unemployed season. The four-agencies-want-you-at-the-same-time season. The let's-have-lunch season. The I-think-I've-used-too-many-hypens season.

One season I went through for a while was the copywriter-on-maternity-leave season.

It seemed every gig I booked was for exactly three months, filling in for someone who was out on maternity leave. It always made me happy. Ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you I'm a romantic at heart.

When love is in the air, money is in the bank.

Anyway, my point is it's never too early to start planning ahead. I'd like to suggest to all the female copywriters thinking about bringing a bouncing bundle of joy into your lives that now is the time. There are so many benefits - for you I mean.

Your parents will stop asking when you're going to have a baby. You and your significant other can start planning the gender-neutral color scheme if you live west of Lincoln, or whether the room is going to be blue or pink if you live east of Lincoln. Your friends can start thinking about how much they're going to spend on your gift at the baby shower (insider tip: don't give the Diaper Genie, they already have one. It's called a trash can).

And you'll have a tax deduction you didn't have before.

In case you were wondering, suggesting you get started now has nothing to do with the fact my son's 2016/17 tuition is due end of August, beginning of September, coincidentally right about the time you'll be having your baby.

Take it from me, nothing in life is more rewarding than you having a baby.

That goes for both of us.

It won't be like this for long

I know you're getting tired of posts about my son going off to college. But that's what's taking up all the brainspace right now, and writing about it here is cheaper than therapy (and a lot cheaper than tuition). I promise this will be the last one on the topic for awhile (fingers crossed, snickering to himself...).

This startlingly beautiful baby is my boy. It's always been one of my favorite shots of him. It was taken at our great friend Michelle Purcell and her husband John's former house in San Clemente, just before he gave a piano recital of Rachmaninoff's piano concerto number 3 (I recall he was pretty accomplished at number 2 as well - BAM!).

I don't remember how old he is here. I only know he's sure not that age anymore.

We just got back from dropping him off at his dorm room in Austin where, if you don't know by now, in between going to all-night movie festivals, eating barbecue brisket by the pound and locally-sourced quinoa salads, he's majoring in film.

And I don't mean dropping him off in the "here's your hat what's your hurry" sense. More in the "we're going to take six days, fix up your dorm room, buy even more things for you at Bed Bath and Beyond, take you out to eat for every meal and let you stay with us in our nice hotel until you absolutely have to move in" sense.

I won't go into what it was like to say goodbye before we had to leave for the airport yesterday. As I'm sure you've surmised by now from the other posts I've put up on the subject, suffice it to say I was a mess (I know, I'm as shocked as you are).

But twenty-four hours later, you'll be glad to know, it's not one iota easier.

I'm lucky in that I have a kid who wants us to text, call, FaceTime and Skype with him all we want. Or so he says. We won't drive him crazy, but we will be in touch on a regular basis. But he's grown up and he's growing up, and we're going to let him do it - no matter how much it hurts or how counter-intuitive it is.

It's been said they're leaving you from the moment they're born. Maybe, but for sure he's been leaving faster and faster as he's gotten older.

And now, in the blink of an eye, he's off becoming the man he's meant to be.

I'm so lucky, because I can't remember a time when my son and I ended a conversation without saying "I love you" to each other. And I'm not about to start now.

I love you buddy man.

Now I have to go help your sister move into your old room.

I'm a wreck

It finally hit me. My boy is leaving for college.

It's not until August, but suddenly the idea of not seeing him every day is crushing. I've taken more pictures of him the last two days than I have in the last eighteen years.

Of course I'm happy for him. And I'm as proud as a parent can be. I've heard rumors parents actually survive this time. I imagine I will as well.

Last night, we went to see an artist I've loved for years named Dirk Hamilton. He was playing at McCabe's in Santa Monica. We drove up there, met another friend and saw an awesome show.

As his schedule gets busier and busier, life becomes more and more like a Harry Chapin song. I'm grateful for any time we can have together.

I understand from people who've gone through it this is a time of growth, maturity and the start of becoming an adult.

I hear he'll go through some changes as well.

Sew I say

This one starts a little over eighteen years ago.

The wife was very pregnant with my son, and we were shopping for all the baby things everyone gets. The crib. The glider chair. The changing table. These are the things we agreed on.

What we didn't agree on was the fabric for the padded liner on the inside of the crib. While we were looking at bolts of fabric, I came across some Elvis patterned fabric I thought would be awesome. It wasn't the fabric in the picture, but that doesn't matter - it was Elvis.

Suffice it to say the wife didn't have quite the enthusiasm for the Elvis liner as I did. She leaned towards the light blue one, with clouds, cowboys and trains. But since she vetoed Elvis, I vetoed that one.

In the end we agreed on one with a deep blue background, yellow stars and moons, a black terrier and a black and white checked border. It was a great pattern: visually stimulating, colorful, calming.

But, you know, it wasn't Elvis.

That Elvis pattern has stuck with me these past eighteen years, and I still can see it in my head as I write about it. At the time, I thought as an alternative to the crib liner, I'd make Elvis pillows. This fabric had to get out in the world. The problem was I didn't have any idea how to sew.

That was then and this is now.

As we speak - or read - I'm currently enrolled in a beginning sewing class. Tonight, I pinned the pattern for the apron I'm making, which is the first class project. I also cut the fabric, marked the loops, and reinforced the pockets. It was slow, sometimes frustrating and painful work what with stabbing myself about a thousand times while I was pinning. I suppose it would've been a lot easier if I'd taken Home Ec in school.

Nonetheless it's a means to an end: the Elvis pillows I've been dreaming about for years are going to become a reality. Sure, they're already a reality if you Google "Elvis pillows" or go shopping for them on Etsy. But those aren't made from a dream that's been kept alive for years.

Oh sure, laugh now. But when you get your Elvis throw pillow for Christmas this year, not only will you love it, I know exactly what you're going to say.

Thank you very much.

My Jesus moment

It was a genuine turn-the-other-cheek moment.

Yesterday I took my son and daughter to see the new movie Thor. If you've seen the lead actor in the ads, you know he's tanned and has long blonde hair.

I call him Malibu Thor.

And if you've seen me, you know how incredibly similar Thor and I are built. I swear, during the scene where he had his shirt off it was like looking in the mirror.

But I digress.

Anyway, we cut it close getting to the theater in time, but were lucky enough to get three seats just a couple steps up the stadium-seating theater. I sat on the aisle.

At some point early on in the movie, I noticed a father with a young baby in his arms come down and stand in the hallway to the theater, just the other side of the rail for the stairs up to the seats. After a little while, his baby started banging on the rail, and frankly the reverberation of the metal every time his kid hit it wasn't enhancing the soundtrack in the slightest.

After letting this go on for a longer time than was reasonable, I leaned over to the dad and politely asked in a whisper if he could stop his baby from banging the rail. With that, he turned to me, bouncing his baby in his arms, and said, loudly, "He's just a kid man. F&#k you!"

Needless to say, not the response I was expecting.

Two things immediately went through my mind: first, it's going to be interesting to hear baby's first words when he's old enough to speak. Second, since I had my kids next to me, and they (and most of the theater) heard the entire exchange, this might be an excellent teaching/learning moment for them.

So instead of engaging this moron, I just kind of laughed it off and returned to watching Malibu Thor. When I did this, I noticed that he retreated back a bit, and moved his baby out of banging range of the rail. He didn't say another word to me, and stood there for the entire film, scared his baby was going to start crying in the theater.

Personally, I don't see why. What is it about seeing an ear-shattering, violent movie about the warrior Norse God of Thunder that would make an 8-month old baby cry?

When I got up to go to the bathroom and walked right by them, I realized I had about 60 lbs. on the guy. He saw me get up, and took a step back as I came around to pass him. When the movie ended, his wife came down from wherever she was sitting, and they quickly left without giving me another glance.

Now, I work in advertising. Believe me it's not the first time I've been F-bombed. But I was proud of myself for going completely against my true nature and not engaging with the guy.

Like I said, a genuine turn-the-other-cheek moment.

By doing so, I had returned the compliment without ever having to say it.

Plus my kids got to see that you don't have to engage every asshole who comes at you.

So all and all, an interesting and educational afternoon at the movies.

Of course, if I'm being honest with myself - which I so rarely do because where's the upside in that - I know if my kids weren't with me, this is probably the Jesus I would have followed.