There's No I In Team (Or Anything Else In Our Home)

Like I needed something else in my life to stress out about.

Zoey is in her final year of preschool (Note to self: Resist the urge to get all sentimental and blather on and on about how your baby's all grown up and will be starting kindergarten next year) and is actually learning things this year. Every week, the class focuses on a different letter of the alphabet.

All the crafts they make start with this letter.

All the books they read start with this letter.

And once a week, they have Show And Tell. If they bring in an item that starts with the featured letter, they get a stamp on their hand. If not, no stamp.

And every parent knows just how important stamps are at this age.

They started us off easy. First week was R. Second week was T. We had plenty of items that started with those letters.

This week's letter was I.

Ten minutes before we were due to leave the house, I remembered that today was Show And Tell. I started thinking of words that started with the letter I. Plenty of words came to mind. Unfortunately, no correlating toys came to mind. So I decided to freak out.

I started frantically searching the playroom, tossing toys around, and mumbling to myself like those silhouetted heads from The Electric Company:

I... guana. Iguana.

We don't have an iguana.

I... gloo. Igloo.

Do they even make toy igloos?

I came t-h-i-s close to stuffing myself in her backpack and letting her take me for Show And Tell.

Teacher: Zoey? What did you bring for Show And Tell today?
Zoey: My Daddy. He's an idiot.

Finally, I found a plastic ice cream cone. I showed it to Zoey and she approved. We were only five minutes late for school.

But all of this got me to thinking. If I had this much trouble finding something that started with the letter I, what the hell am I going to do when we get to the really tough letters?

Q? Let her take one of my Queen CDs?

X? No idea. We don't own a xylophone.

Z? We don't have a toy zebra. Or a real zebra. She could always point to her crotch and show everyone her zipper.

And I'm sure there are other letters that might seem easy but aren't (like the damned I). Which is why this weekend I'm going to make a chart and plan out her Show And Tell items for the rest of the year.

Suggestions?

Other than to chill the hell out? Because that's not an option.

The stamps, man. The stamps. The child must receive her stamps.

Another World Is What We've Found

Confession time: I have always been a big fan of carnivals and county fairs.

Having spent most of my life in smaller towns, I appreciated county fairs. When the fair rolled into town, it was like, "Hey! We know your one-carriage town is boring 360 days out of the year. Let us take you to another place."

And I did. I would attend the fairs every night they were in town. I would stand in the shadows, absorbing the rhythms of the barkers and the hucksters, the lights of the midway, and the stench of cotton candy. I was in my element.

When I was in middle school, I dreamed of running away and joining the carnival. I had romantic visions of traveling in a caravan from town to town, eagerly separating the townsfolk from their hard-earned money. I would fantasize about playing mumbly peg and drinking moonshine around the campfire with The Dog Boy and The Missing Link and losing my virginity to The Bearded Lady.

Everyone has dreams. Mine are just lamer than most.

See, while most kids my age were wasting their time building model airplanes and other such nonsense, I would pore over volumes of Ripley's Believe It Or Not!. I was deeply fascinated with the illustrations of the human oddities. It's truly a wonder I didn't try to drive a railroad spike through my skull so I could be "one of them." And I would scour the county fairs of my youth, desperately seeking freaks like those from the pages of my books.

No luck.

On Friday evening, I took Zoey and Zed to their first county fair. It was the second Friday for the fair and there were a lot of intercity football rivalries that evening, so I expected a low turnout. I was correct. Basically, there were three types of people present at the fair on Friday evening:

• Families with small children. We were not alone.
• Emo kids that would've probably gotten their asses kicked if they had shown up at their school's football game.
• Twenty-to-thirtysomething hipsters, alternately mocking and embracing the carnival kitsch.
  

We had a great time. Zed was completely enthralled with the lights from the rides. I don't think he blinked the entire time we were there. Zoey rode what rides she could (she was much too short to ride most of the rides (sorry, babe; that's what happens when your father's a pygmy)) multiple times. We ate lots of junk. We played a few games.

Zoey even won a toy trumpet! Most of the children in attendance had a toy trumpet. It made a sound like a dying whale. A LOUD dying whale. A weak puff of air into the instrument would produce a 90-decibel blast.

Now imagine several hundred children blowing these horns in unison. It was maddening. But much like the Pied Piper, they did succeed in driving the hipsters from the carnival. So the trumpets weren't entirely a nuisance.

Unfortunately, I didn't spot any freaks (other than my fellow attendees). But there's another fair a few towns away that starts on Friday. And the state fair is next month. Hopefully, I'll finally get to see a freak or two (that isn't a fellow attendee).

More Carnival Fun:
The Old Lion's Teeth, Seems Like A Smile To Me

Stuff Only I Care About XXII

Weekly Random Thoughts On The Yankees

The Yankees went 3-4 this week, bringing their overall record to 93-61, and are now a half game ahead of Detroit for home-field advantage.

And ten-and-a-half games ahead of Boston. Just thought I'd add that part for my Red Sox readers.

Gary Sheffield returned to the lineup on Friday evening at first base (!!!). He's 0-6 so far and has committed one error at his new position.

Mariano Rivera also returned on Friday night. He pitched one inning in picking up his thirty-fourth save of the season, striking out three batters while giving up one hit.

Weekly Random Thoughts On The Carolina Panthers

If they don't win on Sunday, stick a fork in them. The season's over. Done, done, and done.

But it looks like Steve Smith (a.k.a. their offense) will be playing on Sunday. Plus, they're playing the Bucs, one of the few teams that has actually looked worse than the Panthers this year.

BMC Is For Cookie

There was a package inside my mailbox on Friday afternoon. Want to know what was inside the package?


Cookies from Bite-My-Cookie! HELL YEAH!

It was a batch of her world-famous Crackadamia cookies. Know why she calls them Crackadamias? Because they're more addictive than crack. Seriously. I cannot begin to tell you HOW DAMN GOOD THESE COOKIES ARE.

So if you want to taste some of the best cookies you'll ever eat, head on over to her site and offer her your 401k or undying love or cash or babysitting services (she's got another kiddo due soon) in exchange for some cookies. You won't be sorry.

Thanks again, BMC.

I Don't Ask For Much

Please ESPN, for the love of all that is holy, bring NFL Primetime back to Sunday nights.

Cannot. Live. Without. It.

I miss T.J. and Berman.

Sniff.

Sunday Morning Hangover

Here are some of the more interesting/entertaining posts I've come across this week:

• Arwen knows what Jesus would do.
• Dave walks us through the creative process for his cartoons (LINK NOT SAFE FOR WORK).
• Emily's daughter is a school-supply whore.
• Matthew creates the Parent's Bill of Rights.
• Mom-101 learns the things we do for love.
• Rebecca's son speaks his own language.
• Sarcastic Journalist is afraid to answer her door.
  

Not Knowing When To Quit

Sometimes I do things to purposely piss of my wife. It's fun.

But when she brings it on herself? That's even more fun.

Tonight, the four of us went out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. We had been sitting in our booth for 3.6 seconds when Ella hissed at me, "Don't say a word."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I looked at her like she was crazy, wondering what I had done wrong. Then I looked around. I noticed an elderly gentleman sitting at the table right next to us. Dude looked exactly like Santa Claus.

I grinned. "Zoey," I whispered.

I looked at Ella. She was sending me one of her patented shut-the-hell-up-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you glares.

Unfazed, I continued to try to get Zoey to notice Santa. "Zoey," I whispered again. "Look at the booth next to us." My daughter, always the brightest bulb in the bunch, looked up.

I received a sharp kick to the shin. There was no turning back at this point. "Zoey! Look over there," I said as I nodded my head in the direction the man was sitting.

Zoey followed my head and saw the man. "SANTA!" she joyfully screamed. The man smiled at her and waved.

"HONEY!" Ella yelled. "What is your deal?"

A few minutes after the man left, I explained to Ella that he wanted the attention. He was making a concentrated effort to look like Santa Claus. Zoey probably made his day.

Didn't matter.

Now if you'll excuse me, the couch is calling.

Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag

Part 2 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.

When I was young, there was a Quickie Mart about a mile away from where we lived. But it wasn't just a Quickie Mart. It was The Promised Land. Candy, gum, sodas, snacks, pinball machines (and later, video games), and wrestling magazines were all available.

If you had the money.

And most of the time, my friends and I didn't.

So we were constantly dreaming and scheming, trying to figure out ways to make money. And like all ten-year-old entrepreneurs, things never went as planned.

One day at recess, I pulled from my pocket a little rubber ball that was painted like the Earth and started bouncing it on the basketball court. A crowd of boys gathered around me.

"Wow!" What's that?" Boy1 asked.

"My Earth ball."

"I'll give you a quarter for it," Boy2 said. He had my attention. I immediately stopped bouncing the ball.

"I'll give you this rubber spider and a marble for it," Boy3 offered.

"I'll give you a quarter for the spider," Boy4 said to Boy3.

"And I'll give you a dime for the marble," Boy5 said to Boy3.

I quickly exchanged the Earth ball for the rubber spider and the marble. I then turned around and sold the spider and the marble to the two interested buyers for thirty-five cents.

I was dizzy with delight from the transaction. I had just sold a ten-cent rubber ball for thirty-five cents. Suck it, Donald Trump.

Unable to contain my money lust, I ran over to Chuckie, my partner in crime. "Did you just see what happened?" I asked him. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

The next day, we hit the basketball court armed and ready to deal. My backpack was filled with gum, candy, yo-yos, and other little trinkets we didn't want anymore. We would sell items to the highest bidder. We would trade for other items (but only if we were getting the better end of the deal). After a few days, the kids were actually waiting for us on the playground, eager to see what treasures we had for sale each day.

We had a steady stream of buyers and suppliers. We were pulling in ten to fifteen large a week (hey, ten to fifteen bucks are large when you're ten). Life was great.

Until...

There's always an until. If this were a movie, this would be the point where one of us got hooked on drugs or incurred huge gambling debts or some girl came between us and destroyed the operation.

But we were ten-year-old whitebread wusses. Drugs and gambling hadn't entered the picture yet. And despite the fact that both of us had "girlfriends" (in name only), neither of us knew what do with one.

No. We were undone by a snitch.

I prided myself on selling quality merchandise. If something was damaged, I would not sell it or trade for it. One day, some kid (we'll call him Snitchy McSnitchalot) bought one of those paddles with a ball on a string attached to it. It was perfectly fine when we sold it to him but the string broke after he played with it for a few minutes. He demanded a refund. I explained to him that the item was in working order when we sold it to him, so no dice.

So what did he do? That's right. Snitchy told the teacher about our operation.

And after a very heated parent-teacher conference, the Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag was no more.

Related:
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist

Why My Television And I Are No Longer On Speaking Terms

My best friend in the whole word, my television, let me down last night. I watched ABC's Primetime. Did anyone else catch it?

Last night's episode, entitled Cruel Intentions, was about cyberbullying. It examined how teenagers (mostly girls) employed various technological devices (chat rooms, instant messaging, MySpace, webcams, camera phones, etc.) to discredit, demean, and destroy one another. It was quite an eye-opener. And quite frightening.

I came away from the show with three conclusions:

• Girls are VERY mean to one another. Seriously. I thought Mean Girls was just a funny movie, not a way of life.
  
• I'm glad I'm a guy.
  
• Not only am I now planning on homeschooling my children, I'm never letting them out of the house again.
  

Have a great weekend!

You Can Take The Family Out Of Wal-Mart, But That Doesn't Make Them Cultured

Because we didn't have anything on our schedule for Saturday, we headed to a Street Fair a few towns over. We figured it would be a good chance to ease some of our white liberal guilt show the kids there's more out there than the rednecks at Wal-Mart introduce our children to different cultures. Remember, we're all about diversity here at the Cynical Dad household.

Ok. Who am I kidding? We went for the food.

We walked around for a few hours, checked out some crafts, took in a few performances, and ate and ate and ate some more.

Zoey was unimpressed with the whole affair.

The steel drum band? Yawn.

The Spanish folk dancers? Yawn.

The dude playing that six-foot-long gourd? Yawn.

The jugglers? Yawn.

It wasn't until we came upon the karate demonstration that I saw the look of wonder in her eyes that I love so much. She stood perfectly still for what seemed like an eternity (which is about two minutes for a four-year-old), mouth agape, watching every single move those guys were making.

And when they asked for volunteers? Zoey trampled seventeen people on her way to the stage. I knew they were just doing this to sucker us into enrolling her in their studio. But if it gave us five minutes of not having to hear, "I want to go home," they could've given her knives to play with for all I cared.

Of course, as soon as she came down from the stage, "I want to go home!" was replaced with "I want to take karate!" Can't win. We quickly herded her to the children's crafts area.

She decided to make a tribal mask. She was quite proud of her creation. So proud, she wore it around the house for the rest of the day, trying to scare Zed, Ella, and I by yelling "BOO!" every ninety seconds.

Oh well. Perhaps we're better off hanging out with our fellow rednecks at Wal-Mart. And if we start itching for a little diversity in our lives, we'll head over to Kmart.


BOO!


Related:
Zoey And The Amazing Multicultural Themed Camp

The Memory Book For The Cynical Parent

I know some of you own those fancy memory books where you record milestones like your child's first tooth, first time he/she said, "Mama," first time they spent the night at Grandma's house, and so on.

Know what? That lovey-dovey crap ain't for me.

Besides, who wants the memories of their child's milestones interspersed with lame images of innocent victims children being eaten by flowers?

That is why I've created The Memory Book For The Cynical Parent. Feel free to print this out and staple it in the back of your current memory book.

**********

First biting incident: __________

First trip to the doctor to remove a foreign object from the nose: __________

First broken bone: __________

First "I hate you, Mom (or Dad)": __________

First "F" on report card: __________

First emergency parent-teacher conference: __________

First school suspension: __________

First fistfight: __________

First dirty magazine: __________

First cigarette: __________

First alcoholic beverage: __________

First illegal drug: __________

First premarital sex: __________

First drunken party with friends while parents are out of town: __________

First nontraditional hair dyeing (purple, green, orange, etc.): __________

First tattoo: __________

First nontraditional piercing: __________

First missed curfew: __________

First loser boyfriend or girlfriend: __________

First shoplifting arrest: __________

First night in jail: __________

First rehab stay: __________

**********

This post was inspired by the second item on the list. On Friday evening, Zoey jammed paper up her nose. Moron.

We tried to remove it with tweezers, but she was freaking out way too much and it was pretty far up in her nose. We took her to the doctor, where it took the two of us and a nurse to hold her down while the doctor removed the paper.

Hopefully, she learned a lesson.

I know I did: My daughter is a moron.

Random Thursday Crap

Today, My Wife Becomes A Fantasy Football Widow

Ah, yes. The NFL returns tonight. I play in three fantasy football leagues which means I spend every free moment poring over box scores, injury reports, and team practice reports, constantly looking for ways to improve my team. I invest so much time you'd think I owned a real team.

Yeah, I'm a loser.

But damn it's fun!

The Chinese Have Found Me

I get over 100 spam emails a day in my gmail account (thank God for filtering). I looked through them briefly this morning and fifty percent of them were written in Chinese letters. Nice to know I've gone international. Big time, baby!

Laptop Blues No More!

Last night, I was able to revisit the wireless issue with my new laptop for the first time since Sunday evening. It took me five minutes to get it up and running. I have no idea what I did wrong the first time that led to me struggling with it for four hours to no avail. I am truly an idiot.

Thursday Morning Dialogue With Zoey

Zoey, Zed, and I were watching Sesame Street today. Little Richard came on and sang Rubber Duckie. Zoey watched it for a few seconds, scrunched up her nose and squinted her eyes. Finally, she pointed at Little Richard and asked me, "Daddy, is she a boy or a girl?" I couldn't do anything but laugh.

On our way to preschool, Zoey looked at Zed. Zed was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and blue polo shirt. "Zed's dressed like a Daddy today," Zoey said.

This bothered me because I don't own any polo shirts. Apparently, I don't fit the "Daddy Image" mold even in my daughter's eyes.

Oh well.

Labor Day Pains

THE WHOLE IDEA BEHIND LABOR DAY IS TO SPEND THE DAY NOT LABORING, RIGHT?

Ella had to work today. Not only that, she had to work in some faraway exotic locale.

Ok. It's Boston, but that seems pretty exotic to me right now. She'll be back Wednesday night.

But no worries. I can do this single-parenting gig with my eyes shut now.

Actually, that's a lie. Those who know me know I will not be getting any sleep while she's gone.

Or showers.

I AM AN IDIOT (BUT YOU KNEW THAT ALREADY)

I spent four hours Sunday evening trying to set up my wireless router. I have no problem connecting to the network with my laptop if I ignore a tiny little item known as SECURITY.

If my network is unsecured, I have no problem logging in. However, as soon as I activate the firewall on the router, the damn laptop just spins its wheels and laughs at me. Bastard.

Tomorrow night, when I hopefully have some time after the kids go to bed, I'll resume my battle (I really have no idea where to begin but I do know it's not a password issue). But I can tell you those wireless-n cards rock! I'm connecting at 270 Mbps! I can see twelve (yes, twelve!) networks in my neighborhood. Unfortunately, they are all secure networks.

Maybe I should start knocking on my neighbors' doors and see if one them can help me.

BUT IT'S NOT ALL BAD!

Want to know why?

PRESCHOOL STARTS ON TUESDAY!

PRESCHOOL STARTS ON TUESDAY!

PRESCHOOL STARTS ON TUESDAY!

REJOICE!

HALLELUJAH!

ROCK!

And all that jazz.

Stuff Only I Care About XXI

Weekly Random Thoughts On The Yankees

The Yankees went 4-2 this week, bringing their overall record to 80-54, and are now eight (eight? EIGHT!) games ahead of Boston in the AL East.

The Yankees took two of three from Detroit and split the first two games of a three-game series with Minnesota, two potential playoff teams.

Two months ago, I was worried about the Yankees making the playoffs. Now, I'm actually thinking home-field advantage (they're only three games behind Detroit for best record in the American League).

Sunday Morning Hangover

Here are some of the more interesting/entertaining posts I've come across this week:

• Chris improves his vocabulary.
• Crouton Boy recounts his fantasy football draft.
• Dutch discovers some tolerance for the opinions of others.
• Emily explains gothic culture.
• Mothergoosemouse creates her own mnemonic device for the nine eight planets.
• Rebecca does not like green tea and spam.