Another excerpt from our bedroom is in order today…my wife broke the relationship-shattering news this morning.

What was vivid, she went on to explain, was that I had done it. According to her, I had been with a woman named Jennifer. She had a dream, and when she awoke, I was informed that I had been cheating on her.

“It was so vivid”, she said. “So real”.

I said, suddenly excited about the detail of my indiscretion, “Well, was I any good?”

“I didnt see any of that.”

“Uh…well, was she hot?”

“I didn’t see her face.”

And yet, so vivid.

Now, aside from the fact that I know quite a few Jennifers, and many are cute, today I return to something I believe in wholeheartedly.

There are people who can, and people who can’t. I have heard people say that they believe that everyone is capable of going outside their marriage, and I don’t believe it for a minute. Sure I know guys that could, some who have, and some I predict very well might, but I also know a fair number who absolutely aren’t built that way.

Me, I’m the guy who’s a bit of a flirt. I love women, and like their company as much as I like hangin’ with the daddys. In fact, more often than not I’m a guy who has more to talk about with the ladies, because they like to talk about more than sports, which if you recall, I know nothing about. But I have zero interest in looking for an extracurricular piece.

I’ve got my hands full at home with a feisty 5 year old, and it won’t help her in the least to have a part-time father. Not to mention, I love my wife. And if she ever caught me messing around, modern science couldn’t measure how fast she would grab my kids and run.

But this morning I’d simply like to thank my wife for having a dream that didn’t take the fact that I was home with the kids for granted. Maybe it’ll make me a bit dangerous in her mind, and add a spicy new act to our marital play.

Then again, maybe she’ll just realize that her dream was an exaggeration of the truth, which is that I really AM cheating on her. Every night when we are bathing the kids and I say, “Oops, be right back”, I am actually running downstairs to stuff my face with Halloween candy.

MAN, it feels good to tell the truth.

Let it be said that I have a job that many who don’t know better yearn for, many are scared of, and many, like myself, are scared of losing.

I’m a pharmaceutical rep. Many of you already know this, and hopefully some of you doctors have read me and felt my wrath. I know…like anyone reads me, let alone doctors…sigh…

I don’t talk about my company, or my drug, and the only times in the past I have referenced my profession is when I was so frustrated with certain aspects of it that I chose to lash out. Today, I had something happen that gave me pause, and I wanted to share.

I am a specialty rep, meaning I call on other than Primary Care, and in my case, those professionals are Psychiatrists. And where do the psychiatrists practice? Yep, a collection of private practices, hospitals, and private and government-subsidized clinics. I was in such a clinic today, and although I like to think I am putting on a compelling show when giving a presentation, the real drama occurred as I was simply approaching the building. I mentioned this on Facebook this morning, but as I had hours to stew in the memory of a certain gentleman, I thought I could take a minute and add some detail.

Now, to be fair, I was given some general warnings when I was in training as to what I might encounter in waiting rooms and parking lots, but today put a face on what they were being so deliberately vague about. As I approached the clinic, I noticed that the path to the front door was split in two different directions, and each had individuals sitting alongside. As one side had a number of people sitting, smoking, and watching me approach, I chose the path less traveled, the one that led past the solitary gentleman, as large as he turned out to be.

I had been previously warned, by the way, to keep my samples hidden from view so as to avoid being asked about them by those who a detailed explanation of pharmacokinetics might be lost. Today, as on all days, I remembered this as it made perfect sense to me, and had them secured in my rolling black case.

As I approached the gentleman, I noticed him very slightly lift his gaze in my direction. He was large, larger than his sitting form gave credit to my previous cursory evaluation, and he was solid. As I got closer and his eyes found my face, I realized that there was a telltale look in his eye that seems to be common among those who struggle with normal neurotransmitter function. Whether it was the effect of disease on the general expression of his face, or the pharma effect of his meds that caused him to look so blank, he appeared to look right at me, and yet right through me.

He slurred something that I quickly translated to “You got some drugs with you?”

As I had been instructed to, I simply looked at him, smiled, and said, “No, sorry”, and continued along the path, mere feet from where he was sitting.

As I passed, he rose, far taller than my 6 foot form, looked at me and YELLED, “Somethin’ funny there Sarge??!!”

Pretty sure modern science couldn’t have measured how fast I made it inside the clinic.

I don’t get spooked a lot. I’m not the toughest character you’ll ever meet in a dark alley, and I don’t know shit about sports, but I can handle myself. I’ll just say that I wasn’t particularly scared today, but this gentleman gave me pause in the wake of what just happened at Fort Hood. I further think that life gives you wakeup calls, some with more violent ringers than others, and the prudent person doesn’t keep hitting the snooze bar.

I am more conscious than ever of being respectful of those with mental illness, and my uber-intelligent friend Em has taught me how devastatingly insensitive the “r” word can be, so I hope that if any of you ever catch me two-facing those topics you will reward me with an email-slap. Not to mention, I have a 5 year old and a 2 year old. I am in NO position to judge anyone’s mental health.

So these days as I get used to a new gig in new geography, I plan on keeping today’s safety-nod on my frontbrain, and I recommend to all of you being not scared, but always prudent.

Wishing you all a safe week.

My wife works. Despite the benefits of her semi-flexible work schedule, she still has to put in time caring for sick kids and their abhorrent parents on the occasional weekend. No, I’m not making a general statement about the parents of sick kids here, I am simply referring to the ones I hear stories about from my wife, who is very selective about what she brings home from work. And those particular parents paint many others with their misbehavior, the same as could be said about the silicone-laden pharmaceutical representatives who make my own work more challenging. But I digress.

She works on the occasional Sunday, leaving our kids with me in, again, questionable care. A friend described her family to me last night as having “2 boys, 3 if you count my husband, and I do.” It hit home, as I realized that my wife had married with her heart and not with her head in many cases as well. And being a kid at heart, my child-rearing skills sometimes…lack. Sure, I think I am a good father, but I watch other parents perform these attitude-corralling feats with much greater skill, and I haven’t yet discovered their secrets.

So that brings us to Sunday mornings. Days with so much promise, and yet they are built on emotional and behavioral eggshells these days. One 5 year old, one two year old, one 41 year old. One highly spirited kindergärtner, one fairly standard two year old ball of energy with his father’s suspect agility, and one 12 year old father of two simply trying to move from meal to activity, to snack, to activity, repeat.

They are wonderful at 6am, I will admit. Full of love and kisses, smiles and optimism. My 6am coffee and Facebook are the creme on top, and the day ahead seems open and laden with promise. A cup of milk, a snack, a show.

And then, 7:30. The screams, the accident, the backtalk, the terrorized dog, the fit, the tears.

Where is the damn manual for all of this? I can Google a how-to for a toaster whose blueprint hit the dumpster 40 years ago, but getting through a Sunday…no one seems to have a damn clue. Maybe that supernanny broad can help me out.

I know what the answer is, clearly…activities, keep them busy, blah blah. And as I sit here trying to write one damn post this week and actually have a few minutes to myself, I am back and forth to the kitchen to address the screaming and pouting more often than a OCD home pharmacist checking on his meth lab.

I mean, I can imagine that one would have to attend to one’s meth lab diligently…gulp…

I don’t know what the answer is, other than getting off the computer and attending to my kids’ needs. I sat with her this morning teaching her to draw her first third dimensional chair…she loves to draw and color, and I love to teach her. But even during a wonderful Daddy-Daughter activity, she managed to throw two fits for not getting her way about the silliest of things.

I’m doing something wrong. Or I’m simply expecting too much. Or I’m just too flippin’ controlling. But maybe I’m also doing a great job just because I care about doing better.

Regardless, it’s 8am. Three tantrums, one revelation, and one very long day ahead. One very long, exhausting, frustrating, wonderful day ahead.

As I write this, I’m high above the vast monotony of Tennesee, racing the setting sun back to the family I have missed so much while I worked this week to keep my job. I’m fully aware how much of a pansy I sound like when I say that it has been a stressful, emotional week, and I am unbelievably happy to be on my way to a halloween party to re-unite with my wife, Superman and a Fairy.

I did have some fun this week though…ate half my weight in sushi and concerned several friends with my ability to alternate coffee with vodka depending on the sun’s position in the sky. A long time friend and co-worker thought it would be fun to convince people at a hibachi grill that it was my birthday, something I strongly objected to right up to and including the point where the restaurant began to sing Happy Birthday, and the ice cream came out. But then the high point, a beautiful little japanese girl, roughly 3 years old, was so caught up in my fake birthday celebration that she came over to help me blow out my candle and clap for me, and I rewarded her by handing over my ice cream.

She went home with the memory of eating her ice cream before her dinner, and I take home an amazing memory of the best birthday I ever didn’t have.

I look out the window now, and Tennesee is gone. Once a habitual flier, I now find this form of travel, even though ooccasional, unbelievably annoying. And yet, I am returning home in a fine mood thanks to breezing past TSA, managing to grab the last window seat on an extremely full flight, and the following exchange I just had with a passenger…hope you enjoy as much as I did.

I sat in my window seat, and a gentleman counterpart who had the aisle seat followed me into the row. A minute later, a woman stopped in front of us, motioned at the middle seat next to me, and the middle seat in the row behind us.

She said, looking at my counterpart, and then me, “Those are our seats, but we were hoping to sit together. Will one of you move so we can sit together?”

The gentleman and I looked at each other, smiled briefly, and I asked, “You have the two middle seats?”

“Yes.”

The gentleman looked at me again, but said nothing. I replied as politely as I could, “I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to sit in a middle seat for the next 3 hours.”

I have a tendency to cut to the chase.

The woman paused, looked at me and yelled, “OH AWESOME. WE’RE GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW, AND NOW WE CAN’T SIT NEXT TO EACH OTHER!!”

My counterpart and I looked at each other one last time, and although somehwat taken aback, grinned, and went back to our activities. Ultimately a woman seated behind me agreed to give up her window seat to allow the couple to sit next to each other, and Bridezilla promptly went to sleep in her middle seat next to her “fiance” (alleged), and they havent spoken in over two hours. Do I feel bad about not giving up my seat? No. Am I glad I don’t have to sit next to that woman for the entire flight? Absolutely. I am only bothered by one thing.

I will now have to live out my life knowing there is someone out there who is more sarcastic than I am.

Thanks for stopping by, friends…I missed you.