Ahhh, sales. Once you made the decision to start selling something, chances are you never looked back, right? That perpetual, undefinable carrot, forever dangling in front of you, reminding you that the thrill of the chase is equally exciting as the close. We are all salespeople at some point in our lives, no matter what our official title is. Seriously, the greatest salesman I know right now is my three year old…he closes a deal with me every night allowing him to stay up later than his bed time. He’s killin’ it.

I’ll admit though, it’s definitely not for everyone…


Garbage nights in my neighborhood are Monday and Thursday. Both evenings, I robotically retreat out into the yard, assess the magnitude of waste for that night, and proceed in compacting, tying, and rolling it all out to the curb. The stench of used poop diapers from my one year old radiating upwards into my olfactory glands makes this routine chore one I’d pay my wife to take over.

Recycling night is Tuesday and a completely different beast. Armed with a box cutter, gloves, and an attitude that makes the girl from the Exorcist look like an angel, it’s an event…


A Hard Lesson Learned in Potty Training

Chip off the ol’ block

I will never forget the taste. When it hit my mouth, I instantly knew what it was. Toddler urine. In all it’s slapstick, comical glory, I had finally felt what it was like to have entered the territory of, “will do anything for my kids,” which now includes accidentally drinking one of their streams of piss. I also didn’t have a choice, it just kind of happened. The worst part about the whole thing was I was caught off guard. No warning to be able to brace myself from the incoming assault of my son’s pee. Potty training was a…


I used to be the singer in a rock band. The lingering memory of pre-show whiskeys, beer-stained dance floors, and the blinding spotlight masking the audience in front of me is one I will never quite lose. I don’t want to lose it. I won’t.

I spent my entire childhood, up until I was about 34 (I’m 34 now) not only wanting to be a rockstar, but truly believing that it was my lifepath chosen by someone much bigger than myself. Anytime I heard a song, regardless of genre, it made me feel something that still to this day has…


To grown men who work in a professional environment and would agree they are older than 15 years of age: PLEASE STOP WEARING BOOKBAGS TO WORK EVERY DAY.

It’s likely you are also of the variety of those who wear fleece vests and sneakers with suits, have the impatient desire to untuck your shirt as soon as you walk out of your office, and quite possibly still wearing golf visors on the weekends (and not playing a single round)…but just stop it already. I am enthralled that no one is speaking about this issue...it’s all politics, self-help, diet programs, and…


Making lemonade and searching for silver linings.

I love stress. I love everything about it. I love the fact that when you spell it, three out of six letters are the same squiggly lines, alluding to the architects of such a fine word and how tense and agitated they must have been to use those same three letters… which are nothing more than childish doodles. What about using a B or an O? Complete, bold, noble letters. They needed a string of six letters to make it the meaningful word it is today and out of twenty six unique choices, used three of the same letter... if…


Her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

I’d like to start this off by saying I am so pro-BFing. I have witnessed first-hand the magical powers of this white liquid gold and support it and those who produce it any way I can. Whip ’em out ladies, we are long overdue for a nursing revolution. Having said that, it’s not easy. Blood, sweat, and an army of tears can turn away even the most dedicated new mamas. Support from other women is paramount; but a husband who understands and can feel the pain (without actually “feeling’” the pain please), goes a long way. …


The doctor looked right at me. “Congratulations!” she exclaimed. “It’s a boy!” As she lifted my newborn son up to the air like an emperor dawned in a purple robe (which was actually a combination of blood and lack of oxygen), all I knew to think was…Jackpot.

The worries of being served more estrogen on my already estrogen-filled plate and living in constant financial distress due to spoiling another woman I love were coincidentally severed with the cutting of my son’s umbilical cord…which I was so fortunate to have been able to cut myself with golden shears. Pretty divine. Unbelievably…

John BellaVia

Writer. Father. Husband. Salesman. Beat-boxer. Poet.

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